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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


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THE COMPLETE 
GENTLEMAN 



NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



Copyright, 1916, 

By George H. Doran Company 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

MAY 26 1916’ 

©CI.A4331C3 

f . 


DOUGLAS GOLDRING 
THIS FOR THAT 



CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Book One: s. d ii 

Book Two: Carried Forward 323 


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BOOK ONE: £. s. d. 













THE 

COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 

BOOK ONE: £. s. d. 

CHAPTER I 


T T ENRY WEDLAW stopped outside the tobaccon- 
ist’s and took a paper from his waistcoat pocket. 
On this was his list of errands, through which he de- 
liberately went. Yes; everything had been crossed out — 
wine, captain’s biscuits, pot of caviare — everything but 
cigarettes. He had met with a good deal of difficulty in 
trying to get the particular sort he wanted. It would be 
terrible if Oliver couldn’t have the cigarettes he used to 
like so much, and if Wedlaw could manage to get them, 
Oliver would greatly appreciate his thoughtfulness and 
praise his memory. 

He went into the shop, and without visible surprise or 
expressed pleasure, he found what he wanted. It was a 
great extravagance — but then it was for Oliver. 

Before leaving he solemnly drew a straight line through 
the last item on his list, holding the paper against the 
glass door. He then tore it into three equal pieces and 
dropped them into the gutter outside. His conscience 
was free. All the time he had himself been smoking a 
cigarette, because he desired tobacco. He did not like 
II 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


cigarettes. The salutary discipline of Great Cumberland 
Place, through which he had lately passed, claimed its 
ready but inconvenienced victim. 

After a minute or two he turned into a peaceful little 
byway, and stopped before an early Georgian house — 
narrow, gracious, prim. The beautiful red tiles caught 
the sun as they rose for a few feet from behind the cop- 
ing and slanted obtusely back to their inconspicuous apex. 
The front of the house was flat, its bricks mellowed, its 
level window frames gleaming with white paint. And 
of the houses in that row, kempt as they all were, spruce 
and trim, this was the masterpiece of nicety. The small, 
square panes were pools of ink, revealing darkness; and 
here and there they glittered in the light. The straight, 
cream-coloured folds of the curtains peeped prudently 
from within. 

A momentary hesitation before the doorstep was 
enough to recall to Wedlaw all the usual emotions proper 
to the place and circumstances. 

It would be too much to say that he was envious of 
Faucet as owner of this delectable abode : yet he recalled 
with a pang of regret that but for the perdition of the 
family fortune, this house might have been his. It had 
been sold by his grandfather to the Faucets in the early 
’forties for a good price. But Henry Wedlaw was one 
of those who must ever irk and gall himself and growl — 
'This would be mine — ^but for contingencies.” 

Gerald Faucet was an amateur priest, and he had just 
returned from a retreat. It was said that he gave this 
name to a holiday during which he allowed no letters to 
follow him. They had not met since Wedlaw’s engage- 
ment. It would be interesting to hear what Gerald would 
say. 

12 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


“Money?’’ 

For a man who cherished a reputation for shyness, 
Gerald had an unexpectedly disconcerting way of look- 
ing up from whatsoever task engaged his attention, and 
asking leading questions. He was a young man gone 
bald, with bumpy, irregular features, and something of 
a dandy. He wore a short jacket of black velvet, its 
buttons made of old silver coins. 

Wedlaw was startled into annoyance. He even flushed 
a little. 

Faucet screwed himself round in his chair again and 
took up a fragment of porcelain which with steady fingers 
he insinuated into its cemented niche in a broken plate. 
The table at which he was working was big and long 
with bulbous legs, black with age, rugged and unshak- 
able. It was in a muddle of newspapers and books, quill 
pens and the other munitions of writing. At one end 
there was a tray with tools and small pieces of brass and 
hard wood for the mending of ancient pistols. 

“An exceedingly ill-bred question, wasn’t it?” Faucet 
said before the other could answer. “But you always 
said you’d marry money, you know.” 

“One says these things ” 

One does. Wedlaw had reiterated his calm intention 
on many occasions. “For my part, if ever I marry. I’ll 
marry money. That’s the only inducement for me.” 
And so it was. But now he got up impatiently and 
fidgeted with the key of his watch, twisting it backwards 
and forwards until it was fully wound and he could only 
twist it backwards. 

“One says these things ” 

“And then nature proves too strong, ’’suggested Faucet, 
going on with his mending, “and love steps in — so” — and 
he added another atom to the shattered plate — ^“and 

13 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


earthy resolutions die — ^there’s a little triangle here 
that's going to be the very devil — and the human pawn 
bows to the sweet inevitable, and ” 

Henry Wedlaw looked up to the high mantel where 
there stood Persian bowls and Syrian. They were of an 
exquisite colour, but he was unable to determine whether 
it was blue or green. 

^‘You’re talking a lot of nonsense," he said casually. 

‘T am. Lucre is trampled under love. Ambitions are 
reconstructed. Gross desires for material comfort are 
wiped out ; the heart is filled with noble resolves and the 
belly with its dinner of herbs; the soul aspires to a vague 
but loftier bourne, and self is lost in another and more 
precious self. Nevertheless," and Gerald, having finished 
the mending of the plate, turned round with the mien of 
detennination upon his victim, “nevertheless, Henry, I 
repeat — has she any money?" 

Wedlaw gave in with what grace he could summon. 
After all, though mad, Gerald was an old friend. 

“It's Dolly Lowe," he said, in the tone of a boy who 
admits to anxious parents that he has made a hundred 
runs. 

Faucet's lean, enthusiastic face lit up. 

“My dear Henry, how very nice. Dolly too : so bright 
and accessible to ideas. How few girls are. And she’s 
well off, of course, since her uncle died." 

“And he incidentally inherited all my namesake’s 
money, who, since he was distantly connected with both 
of us, might just as well have left it to me. In fact I 
had hopes. He was one of those people who are always 
chopping and changing. He never could make up his 
mind about some things." 

Faucet restrained a smile. 

14 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


never knew Joe Wedlaw,” he said. ‘‘Sugar, wasn’t 
it? Sugar and spice and all that is nice.” 

“Yes, he was about the only planter in the West 
Indies who ever really made money since the old slave 
days.” 

“I’m glad you’re going to marry Dolly. She’s not 
stupid and, as we were just saying ” 

“Look here, I’m devilish fond of her,” said Wedlaw 
decisively. 

Gerald thought the introduction of sentiment pecu- 
liarly needless. Nevertheless he fell in with his com- 
panion’s mood. 

“Really, my dear fellow, you should have said so at 
first. I humbly apologise for being amusing about it. 
By Jove, Henry, you ought to look much more pleased 
than that.” 

Wedlaw had been standing against a bookcase, looking 
slightly foolish. Now he grinned. 

“Oh, I am pleased. I’m very pleased. I’ve — not got 
used to it yet.” 

“Ah, you must never, never do that. Now I simply 
must tackle another plate. You tell me all about it. 
Wonderful cement this — hardens at once.” 

He scooped up a little from a tin, poured it into an 
envelope and gave it to Wedlaw. 

“My invention,” he added. “Come in useful some 
time. Keep it in a dry place.” 

“Why on earth don’t you patent it? You’d make a 
heap of money.” 

“Money,” repeated Gerald in an even voice; 

“Yes. It’s very well for you to sneer. You can afford 
to.” 

“I’m not. I’m only rather glad to keep the thing to 
myself. I like to think I’ve got something which might 

15 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


be turned into thousands of pounds but which isn’t going 
to be. It tickles me very much. You talk now.” 

Henry didn’t want to talk. He wanted to collect his 
thoughts and to make certain whether Gerald was laugh- 
ing at him or not. He felt uneasy, and as soon as he 
had said it, he knew what a fool he had been for con- 
fessing his old hopes of Wedlaw’s money. Having 
achieved what for some years past he had been coolly 
determined upon he for the time being tried to hood- 
wink himself into believing that there was in his mar- 
riage an element quite foreign to his previous intentions. 
Gerald, he decided, was a cynical person, much too 
prone to laugh. 

Now he looked about him. He had not been in the 
house for some time, and, in view of repairing his own 
and settling down, he was beginning to take an interest 
in domestic arrangements and conditions. The room 
was pleasantly low and plainly panelled, the even-grained 
oak being of that exquisite colour which comes only 
from years of hard polishing with beeswax. It was an 
untidy place; there was a pile of books upon the floor, 
evidently being used to press out something flat. Old 
firearms were strewn about, and pipes were everywhere, 
dark shining briar, meerschaum exotically carved. 

Certainly such surroundings would not have contented 
Henry Wedlaw. The room, in one sense, was too severe ‘ 
for him. He would have preferred big leather arm- 1 
chairs and photographs of his friends. But it was im- j 
possible to avoid being struck by the place and its con- 
tents. Wedlaw was a man who liked to remember now 
and again that he had taste. But he had no idea what he 
really liked. He did not know, for instance, how much 
he appreciated the brick-red cushions on the dark chairs 
in conjunction with the deep blue hearthrug. He was 

i6 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


quite convinced that things should be quiet and subdued, 
cheerful without being vulgar; always and ever useful. 

Here there was little strictly of use. It could hardly 
be said that Faucet’s chattels were for show: he could 
never be accused of that. But they were for the most 
part things to be looked at, not to be handled, save in 
the sheer joy of possession. 

There was no denying that Faucet really was artistic, 
as Wedlaw would put it to himself — his old furniture, 
his china, his collection of weapons showed that. But 
then also he was rich. 

Leaving costly art out of the question, Wedlaw had 
never been able to surround himself with any of the 
things he liked. 

He wondered for the hundredth time what the lord 
of all this transcendence did with his money. He was 
extravagant only within the walls of his house. Beyond 
that there was nothing to show that he was well off. 
Gerald was rather a mystery. Perhaps the word retreat 
was a euphemism: perhaps Gerald was an arrant hum- 
bug — ^^sly old bird. But no: Wedlaw knew that this 
commonplace explanation would not do. 


17 


CHAPTER II 


O view of his proposed conduct save the material 
^ had ever presented itself to Henry. He just wanted 
money. He wanted to be comfortable. He wanted to 
be able to do what he liked, to sit where he liked, to 
eat what he liked and choose the amusements which 
appealed to him. He was generous — in the accepted 
meaning of that word — and he wished to give his gener- 
osity free play. Easy in the satisfaction of his own 
requirements he would like the easy gratitude for money 
given. To poor relations and laborious friends he would 
be perpetually a Santa Claus, a deiis ex machina. . . . 

For there had scarcely been a period in his life when 
he had not allowed himself to be hampered by lack of 
money. He had rarely been content. Ever had he 
needed the imagination by means of which poor folk 
make merry, the childish faculty of make-believe. He 
knew of jolly vagabonds who played the fool and did 
outrageous things, which were the things that are not 
done. But these were the outcasts of society. Though 
they enjoyed mad pranks, and made the best of what 
the gods had given them, they cut themselves adrift from 
kith and kin and kind. Henry Wedlaw, on the other 
hand, put out his eyes to spite his head, and thus it was 
that his idea of pleasure was pleasure bought. He re- 
fused to have a good-time-for-nothing, for that meant 
i8 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


silliness : the English of it being that he regarded happi- 
ness as an external condition. * 

“My dear,” his mother said, “happiness has nothing 
to do with money. It is there — inside you. You can 
take it or leave it, but no amount of money and no 
poverty that you’re likely to face will alter it.” 

“That sounds very nice, mother,” he replied, “but 
it’s a bit too lofty and high falutin for me.” 

“You work hard, my boy,” said his father, “and you’ll 
find time go fast enough” — which is the same thing said 
differently. 

“Eh, Master Henry. I rec’lect as if ’twas yesterday,” 
said his old nurse, though she did not say it all at once, 
“I rec’lect the way you’d be a Hindian one day and a 
sailor the next. You won’t be remembering that, I ex- 
pect? Quiet, good little boy, you was. You’d come to 
me to help you put the nursery table topsy turvey on the 
floor; and all the afternoon you’d be a rigging of it — 
your ship you called it. And the legs was masts, with 
an old dust sheet for sails, and you’d sit under there and 
tie them up with bits of string. Same with your Hindian 
tent, which you called your wig — wigwam — that was it. 
That’d be the curtain which you propped out from the 
wall with a couple of walking-sticks. You never played 
no games with them. All the afternoon you’d be a get- 
ting ready for the game till you was tired out. And it 
struck me then, and, thinking of it, it’s struck me since, 
that getting your boat ready and making it and all was 
your game” — which again is the same thing, only said 
very much better. 

But in spite of this natural law Henry Wedlaw con- 
tinued steadfastly to grumble. Even at school, where 
the snobbery of wealth is perhaps least active, he had 
been handicapped and thwarted. The 3tudy orgy on 

19 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Saturday nights had been for him a travesty. Fives-balls 
were expensive. . . . His was the curse of the yoimger 
son. 

To pig it in some tuppeny regiment — no. He took 
comfort in knowing there was something to be said for 
the point of view. He despised the idea of playing 
Chanticleer on an inferior dunghill — ^which part he re- 
garded as non-conformity in essence. He would be 
content to take his place along with his fellows, if he 
could. But he could not. It must be all, or nothing. He 
could not go into the Army. 

As a boy just fledged he had a pretty taste in horse- 
flesh. He could ride fairly well. He liked racing. He 
had the unbefitting gift of making friends with rich 
young men from whom he was too proud to cadge. He( 
could be with them for a while, tasting in an agony of 
apprehension their money joys, too little of a fool to 
live in paradise. 

From one such set as this he often recalled his dis- 
missal. It was just before he went abroad on his first 
serious job in South America. Behind him lay the days 
of drudgery in the School of Mines. He was staying 
with his mother in London. He had fallen in with 
friends. A glorious evening had been proposed — dinner 
here, a box at the Empire, supper there. Ordinary 
enough, only you had to remember in whose company 
the night was to be spent. And Wedlaw always remem- 
bered. He had learnt never to act without thinking 
first, always to look before he leapt, so that if the leap 
came off at all there was no exhilaration in it. He was 
damnably cautious. He had got into the habit of look- 
ing twice at a shilling before spending it, he had become 
disgustedly accustomed to the miserable economy of 
wearing his clothes according to the people he was to 
20 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


meet — old clothes for friends, new clothes when stran- 
gers might be useful. So now he had the foresight to 
guess the sort of figure this jolly riot would stand 
him in. 

He had grown courageous. With no shamed face he 
owned that he was sorry he couldn’t run to it. 

‘Tity it is you have no money,” said a young Jew 
who knew him well. 

That was the end of it. It was a pity, but there was 
no more to be said. At first he had been outraged at 
the indelicacy of the remark. It was blatantly vulgar — 
exactly the sort of thing a little nouveau riche, a scion 
of Whitechapel properly would say. Wedlaw felt bit- 
terly cheapened. He had been friends with this man 
and the others. He had tried in the past to keep up 
with them, at any rate now and again to play with the 
toys that were the commonplaces of their every day. 
And he knew it was no use. He could dabble with 
their pleasures on rare occasions, on occasions rarer still 
they would dally with affected simplicity. But poor 
men’s pleasures bored them even more than they bored 
him. And when he had time to think he recognised the 
wisdom of the Jew. There was flattery in what he said, 
and the flattery was sincere. He was not a snob. Wed- 
law might have gone about with them in rags, if only 
he could have afforded to do in other respects as they 
did. They were not in the least degree mean|, but they 
knew that he was too good a man to buy, too good a 
friend. It was just — a pity. They would get on with- 
out him. He must get on without them. But — ^ — 

'^One day I’ll marry a girl with money, and then ” 

Gerald Faucet was the only man of his own age whose 
money had never diminished intimacy: but that was 
owing to dissimilarity of tastes. 


21 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Henry was a man of expensive ideas but he had stifled 
them and never given them rein. Unlike many a better 
man before him, he had never allowed his affairs to get 
out of hand: he was never for long in debt. He liked 
to think that a peculiar code of honour belonging to his 
family excluded even this: he liked to think of the in- 
violable Wedlaw ideal. It never occurred to him that 
this was colouring the picture rather too highly. The 
Wedlaw Honour sounded rather feudal and impressive, 
having a common root idea with the Hyphen Jewels and 
the Curse of the Asterisks : it seemed to suggest one hand 
upon the heart and t’other on a sword-hilt. Whereas 
the Wedlaws had no continuous stream of family his- 
tory. They had not been immemorially connected with 
one house or one part of the country. Some times they 
had lived in a house of their own for a generation or 
two, and then it had been sold or stolen from them. At 
the moment there were two houses in the family, one 
for each son. Michael’s had been bought by his father : 
from his mother Henry had inherited his. Certainly 
it was an old family in a narrower sense than that in 
which all families are old, but it was not particularly 
distinguished. 

For the most part, up to Henry’s time, they had fol- 
lowed the old rule of Navy, Army, Church and Law. 
And if from time to time one member of the family 
contrived to distinguish himself, the effort strained the 
resources of the rest. Henry’s father, for instance, had 
retired as a major who had seen but little service, and 
had* never been able to recover from the fact either that 
his grandfather had written a standard work on Juris- 
prudence, or that his uncle would once have preached at 
St. Paul’s but for twisting his ankle as he mounted the 
steps to the pulpit. 

s22 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Still, the Wedlaws were an honest race, had been and 
proposed to be; and if the late major had swaggered a 
little about this wholesome tradition and had tried to 
regard it as an heirloom, no harm could result save the 
derision of those who had heirlooms but no traditions. 

With a little rough shooting, an occasional day’s hunt- 
ing, though never contented, Henry put up. Judging 
clubs on the same principle as the Army, he had, until 
recently, belonged to none. 

When staying in some country house he would won- 
der, without any quickening sense of humour, what the 
man would think who took his keys, unpacked his bat- 
tered box and saw the signs of beggary within: less that 
he might give a tip the servant earned than to avoid the 
stare of insolence and sneering thanks, he would endure 
a minor martyrdom of self-denial. 

For a year or two, hard work in a strange land, 
novelty, a measure of good luck, brought him some 
sort of content. He developed quickly along orthodox 
lines. He was thrown much on his own resources. He 
read, he even rioted a little. And from everything he 
did and read he learned the lesson that the world is 
governed by money, that with money you can do any- 
thing, without it nothing, that happiness can be bought. 
This lesson, so far as Wedlaw was concerned, had been 
learnt before it had been begun. 

The republicans of Indian blood and Spanish name 
to whom the abominable expenditure of gains ill-gotten 
was the summit of usual ambition he detested as only 
a healthy white man can : but their more immediate goal 
was also his — money, money. 

He found that Britons were respected in Montevideo. 
A government shrewd enough to realise the little weak- 
nesses of the people it represented was ready to pay (if 

23 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


such a course was unavoidable) for unimpeachable in- 
tegrity. So Britons found work. And as mining engi- 
neers simply must be honest, Wedlaw was one of them. 
He did his work, he drew his pay. He lived as much 
as possible with his own countrymen. Whenever pos- 
sible he played English games and eschewed native 
drinks. He was perfectly content with his own view 
of things, which remained quite unaltered all the time 
he was abroad. He resolutely refused access to fresh 
impressions. Great Heavens, if he did that he might 
become cosmopolitan, which is about the same as being 
a cursed foreigner. He behaved very much as though 
Uruguay were a British colony. And when lonely eve- 
nings found him in the camp, he would dream of all 
the things he could remember in the Stores catalogue. 

But at however high a value that shrewd govern- 
ment might be disposed to count his services, the irre- 
sponsible native was wily in exacting toll, and pay must 
be high indeed to stand the strain and leave any of itself 
over to be saved. And Henry Wedlaw had not got it 
in him to save. Discontented as he was with his 
comparative poverty he liked to be munificent to his 
mother who herself was of a like kind — ^poor but with 
fine ideas. There was Evelyn too, his elder sister. It 
was nice to do something for her when he could. No, 
a mere job was no good. True, it might be if you stayed 
long enough. You might be rich in the days when you 
were too old to enjoy it. But now was the time. All 
youth knows that the old cannot enjoy their wealth. 
It is of no real consequence to them that they travel first 
class from London to York, sit in luxurious clubs, be 
well waited on. Rare flowering shrubs don’t look as 
though they were expensive, an old woman’s dress can- 
not cost so much as a young one’s. . . . They don’t 
24 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


want to be gadding about and spending money. Not a 
bit of it. Get money young and enjoy it whilst you may. 
Now was the time that he wanted capital. Time and 
time again he had seen a chance if only he had been 
able to take it. A new country, unexploited hitherto — 
that was how fortunes were made, and new countries 
were getting scarce. But what could he do with his 
miserable salary? 

There were ways if only he knew them. Other men 
were always telling him so and taking advantage of them 
too. But these were men with ‘'sound commercial edu- 
cations.” Bitterly he cursed the snobbery which had 
forbidden him this. Certainly he had been taught a 
trade ; thus far was he in better plight than poor wretches 
who came unequipped for anything from the Universities. 
But of Business he knew nothing. Business was the 
thing. Business with a perfectly enormous B ruled the 
world, also the waves. Business was twin to Britannia. 
And he, Henry Wedlaw, had been denied any knowledge 
of it because the Wedlcm/s didn't do it. There is this 
to be said — it wasn’t merely that it wasn’t done; what 
mattered was that the Wedlaw’s ipsissimi didn’t do it. 
To be sure, engineering “wasn’t much,” but then some 
concession must be made to the trend of the times and, 
moreover, the Carlyans — even the Alketts — ^to choose 
two very notable families — had each contributed younger 
sons to this profession; and however lofty your out- 
look, however inviolate your self-esteem, a little precedent 
is very comforting at times. 

From Uruguay he moved to Colombia, where he and 
his kind were just as indispensable, and where robbery 
was as rife. He journeyed very extensively, and be- 
cause he had to, he hated it. He greatly admired the 
scenery, passing through which he played picquet as much 

25 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


as possible, and wrote home to say so. What really 
impressed him was the size of the mountains. He was 
intensely proud to know that his mine was at whatever 
preposterous height above the sea level it happened to 
be. He felt that it was nice to see a strange country, 
but that it would be much nicer if he was a leisured 
traveller. It was no pleasure to him to be part of the 
show the tripper gazes at, to sell where most English- 
men buy. On the contrary it was rather infra dig. 
When he married the golden girl he would see things 
properly. And in the meantime a certain wholesome 
abhorrence kept him from the easy marriage market of 
Latin America. Big-eyed, whopping, wobbling Juanitas 
and their greasy papas were very fain to capture an 
Englishman; and Wedlaw’s entirely English conscience 
revolted against an arrangement which would be so 
matter-of-fact, so blunt, so artless. It would not be 
sporting. Also, it would not be nice. 

So time went on. Hard work abroad, home for a 
spell, and away again. He was thoroughly capable, abso- 
lutely conscientious. When he was given a job he did 
his job to the ultimate best of his capacity. At work 
he must have been happy — his face showed no perma- 
nent signs of discontent. Nevertheless in between whiles 
he never lost an opportunity of complaining. ‘There’s 
no money in engineering,” he would say. The Grouser, 
he began to be called wherever Englishmen gathered to- 
gether behind his back. When Joe Wedlaw, a very 
remote cousin, died rich in the West Indies, he had 
gnashed his teeth, silently and with well-bred restraint. 
His hopes had not been very big, but the man was child- 
less and alone: and as a boy Henry had seen a good 
deal of him; occasionally the elder man had been gen- 
erous. That would have been such a splendid way out 
26 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


of the difficulty. To get the money without the trouble 
and bother of being married for it was, he saw after- 
wards, much too good to be true. 

Then his mother died and he inherited enough to 
live on. His sister Evelyn had been married for some 
time to a private schoolmaster with a heavy sense of 
responsibility, but apparently an income to match it. 
She was satisfactorily accounted for. Engineering, in 
which there was no money, was promptly given up for 
idling, in which there was less. But at least he was now 
free to pursue the course he had mapped out. 

Naturally, during short respites at home there had 
been an affair or two: and once he had been caught 
napping in a sentimental mood. Actually, he had im- 
agined himself in love with a face — a face which was its 
owner’s sole fortune. His mother, unwise for her gen- 
eration, had applauded him; his elder brother Michael, 
the soldier, of whom he saw very little, sneered. Be- 
tween them he woke up and realised what he was doing 
and hurriedly withdrew before any damage was done. 

And now, thirty years of age, straight and trust- 
worthy to look at, Henry had successfully finished his 
long campaign. Though he had never known her — ^it 
is to be doubted indeed whether he had ever heard of 
her — ^before his last return home, Dolly Lowe was a 
distant connection of his, the connection of a connection, 
rather. He had met her at the house of her aunt. Of 
her money he had heard beforehand. Old Joe should 
be done yet. The mountain was coming to Mahomet. 
If he couldn’t have bread and butter, he should have 
butter and bread. It was almost the same in the end. 

He had plain, honest manners. Dolly was impetuous. 
She had spent most of her girlhood on the continent of 
Europe, and was very tired of foreign ways. Henry 

27l 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


was the most typical Englishman she had met since her 
return. He seemed a nice, kind old thing, a little elderly 
for his age, but a dear. She fell head over heels in 
love with him, by which is meant that her heels had 
temporarily usurped the qualities which should have 
belonged to her head and had trampled on them. 

Henry was very pleased. He thought Dolly a nice- 
looking girl — ^pretty indeed. She was suitably devoted 
to him. And — and really he would be able to do some 
of the things he wanted to do now. The world was a 
good place. No longer would the appalling, soul-drug- 
ging, mind-clogging pettiness of poverty drag upon him 
and hold him down. Dear old Gerald might grunt and 
try to be funny. Let him. Henry could whistle back. 


28 


CHAPTER III 


G O on,” said Faucet. “Talk.” 

“I can’t stop long now,” said Henry. “I’ve got 
to go to Paddington.” 

“To meet Oliver?” Faucet asked rather testily. 

“Yes. He telegraphed to-day.” 

He could not resist a little thrill of pleasure at the 
thought that for once he had been preferred to Gerald. 
It was childish, but there had ever been a certain com- 
petition amongst his friends for Oliver Maitland: and 
on this occasion Gerald, staunchest of his boon com- 
panions in the past, had known from him nothing of 
his coming. 

“I think he might have told me,” he said. 

Henry had received Maitland’s letter announcing his 
imminent return from the West Indies the previous week : 
and had written to tell Gerald. 

“He probably thought you were still out of England 
yourself, and he’s a casual beggar as we all know.” 

“You think he’s casual, do you?” Faucet remarked 
seriously. “Of all men I know he least earns that de- 
scription. Poor old Oliver — ^he must have had a time 
with the earthquake. Just the sort of experience to 
suit him.” 

“He only just mentioned the fact,” said Henry. “I 
saw in the papers that Wren, the governor, had a nar- 

29 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


row shave. He left for Jamaica only a few hours be- 
fore, and never knew what had happened till he got to 
Kingston the following day. No doubt we shall have 
all the details to-night/' 

'‘Not we. You may. I'm dining out. I dare say 
he'll come and look me up, though, some time." 

"Of course," said Henry, anxious to smooth ruffled 
feathers. "It's very ungrateful of him not to let you 
know." 

Faucet frowned at this and began to busy himself 
with a small oil can and the wheel-lock of an inlaid 
pistol. The question of gratitude had not entered his 
head, and his companion's untimely reminder of past 
generosity was distasteful. 

"Gerald," the latter exclaimed with what was, for 
him, unusual animation. "Gerald, do you realise he 
hasn't been home for three years now? He'll have 
plenty to say." 

"Oliver was never at a loss for that." 

"I expect he knew Old Joe. He hasn't been dead a 
year, and you can't help knowing people in Santa Maria 
— it's about as big as your hand. And I shouldn’t won- 
der if he’s been mixed up in the Cuban insurrection. 
It's near by and just the sort of thing to suit him.” 

"I shouldn't wonder if he says so. Where's he 
staying?" 

"With me for a night or two. After that — — •” 
Henry indicated a wide range of possibilities. "He'll 
very likely be off again within the week. Wonderful 
feller, old Oliver.” 

"Yes, very. There's the front door — somebody com- 
ing to see me, or do you think it is Morpeth’s At Home 
day?” 

Morpeth was the man-servant whose reluctant evi- 
30 . 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


dence was chiefly responsible for the divorce of his late 
master. Having, for obvious reasons, to find a new 
place, he had entered the service of Gerald Faucet, who 
had been in court on the regrettable occasion aforesaid, 
and who had been deeply impressed by the fellow's 
admirable manner in the witness-box. 

Henry laughed. 

'‘They're the devil of a nuisance. I often wish 
I'd brought home my old Gaucho servant — faithful 
old dog, but he didn't like the idea of England." 

"Foresight and fidelity — most valuable combination. 
.Yes?" 

Morpeth had opened the door. 

"Miss Lowe, sir." 

"My dear Henry," said Faucet. "This is delightful. 
Now I shall be able to bless you both." 

"I think I shall bolt. There'll be that aunt of hers.''' 

Faucet smiled slowly as he followed his companion 
down the stairs, for he guessed what would happen. 

"You shall not bolt," said he. 

In another minute they were in the drawing-room, 
and there on the sofa, already amusing herself with a 
portfolio of old engravings, sat Dolly — alone. 

For a second Wedlaw stood still. His mouth was 
tightly closed. He coloured deeply. It was not merely 
an outrage — ^horribly unladylike ; it was very nearly im- 
moral. This happened a long while ago — ^before Time, 
according to present reckoning, had started to move. 
It was when Art was New, and Woman was New, and 
when Chelsea was beginning to be rather old ; when some 
elders were still heard to whistle Mere Angot back from 
a past of sentimental memories and when "You should 
see me dance the Pol-ka" was ground out of every 
barrel organ from Praed Street to Newington Cause- 

31 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


way. It was the year when the first actor was knighted, 
and when Dumas died 

What in Heaven’s name would Gerald think? Dolly 
did not even know him with any degree of intimacy. 
The girl must be off her head. 

Whatever he thought, Faucet did the honours, with 
the smile on his face not yet widened to a grin, and a 
very merry twinkle in his eye. 

Dolly was a big-bosomed, joyous ^irl, with a fine high 
colour and noble eyes and hair done in that manner 
which it was not yet stupid to call Rossetti-ish — a girl 
of physical and temperamental extremes; she was pecu- 
liarly long-sighted, of robust health and buoyant vitality : 
her education had been modem and excessive, and her 
intuitive faculty, her rare sense of proportion scorned 
it. Her eyes shone with eagerness for life, but not with 
fanaticism. 

Her little hat was perched precariously on the top of 
her head, and Faucet, at any rate, noticed with a thrill 
of pleasure how the light seemed to glide along the 
ridges of her prodigious sleeves. At the open collar, 
companionable with the soft blue silk of her, she wore 
a little brooch of sapphires. 

'T thought I should find Henry here,” said she, look- 
ing dazzlingly in his direction. ‘‘You’re going to meet 
your Oliver-man, aren’t you? He must be what silly 
people call interesting, because he’s been about a lot, 
which is nonsense. Henry, you’ve been all around m’hat 
and you’re not a bit interesting, dear. I have a feeling 
that I shall not like your Oliver.” 

“Oh, yes, you will,” said the two men together. 

“What I really came for,” said Dolly, “was to ask 
you to marry us.” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Gerald Faucet carefully arranged an expression of 
perplexity. 

‘T donT think I know how,” he answered. ‘TVe 
never done anything of that sort.” 

“But you’re a clergyman.” 

“Do forgive me, if I correct you,” Gerald said. “There 
are so many kinds — clergymen, parsons and devil-dodg- 
ers. Personally because in my extreme youth I had 
a passion for passing examinations, I took orders — 
merely.” 

So he had, though it would be difficult to say from 
whom. He had never been known to wear his uniform. 

“I gave up that sort of thing long ago,” he said. 

“Then you must take it up again for us — -just for 
once. Do you mean to say you are really only a parson 
for fun?” asked Dolly. 

“Not a parson either, though certainly for fun.” 

“What is the difference, please, between the species?” 

“Well, you see, clergymen are lofty people — ^generally 
vicars, I think — smooth, you know, nicely behaved and 
so forth. You’ve seen Mr. Cyprian Chasuble, so you’ll 
see my point. Parsons are not so nice, but on the fwhole 
they’re more useful; whilst devil-dodgers are people 
ordained on the express condition that they go away at 
once to the tropics and become martyrs. I don’t think 
they always do, though. They often come back and get 
important livings. But I’ll marry you if you want me 
to.” 

“Thank you very much. Then that’s settled.” Gerald 
was pleased to fool in this way, but Dolly was perfectly 
well aware that he was no mere mountebank. On some 
future occasion she determined to discover from him 
the true reason of his retirement from his craft. “I’ll 
run away now,” she said. “Mind one of you bring this 

33 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


blessed Oliver to come and see me soon, and then Pll 
tell you if you may go on knowing him.” 

*T\\ come and put you into your cab,” said Henry. 

‘‘Must both go, must you?” asked Gerald. “Well — 
again many congratulations — many.” 

He followed downstairs to see them ceremoniously to 
the door, the wheel-lock still in one hand and in the other 
an oily rag. 

The hansom was waiting in the street, and for a little 
way Henry shared it with his lady. For some moments 
he was silent. Then 

“What on earth induced you to turn up at Gerald’s 
alone? I can’t conceive what he must have thought of 
you.” 

Dolly looked steadily at her betrothed, with just the 
least hint of trouble in her eye. 

“Now — now — ^now,” she said, “you leave me and my 
funny little ways alone. I’m not a harem and I’m not 
going to be treated like one. Henry, dear, do hurry up 
and realise that I am I.” 

And then she thought how admirably proportioned 
he was and how well dressed. Then she looked again 
and decided against that ultimate description. His clothes 
were just a little old-fashioned and had been new when 
that fashion was new. But they fitted him and were 
most scrupulously brushed, these dark, enduring tweeds. 
His black billy-cock, straightly set, his light covert coat 
carefully folded over his arm, hiding the handle of the 
thinly rolled umbrella which hung there — all betokened 
a certain formality. Without being definitely distin- 
guished, his face was well-bred — ^very light grey eyes, 
an adequate but not aggressive chin, a straight short 
nose not too widely removed from a small decided mouth, 
a fair moustache. He was unalterably usual, 

' 34 , 


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There was much that he would have liked to say to 
Dolly about the audacious call : only now it was getting 
late, and if he wished to meet the boat train, he must 
leave her. The lecture must wait. 

“Modern ideas,’’ he muttered as he pushed up the 
trap and told the man to stop. 

“Oh yes. I’m a New Woman, I am,” said Dolly. 
“Look at me !” 

Wedlaw got do-wn from the cab, closed the doors 
again and took off his hat. 

“I’m thankful you’re not,” said he with a suggested 
return to good-humour. 

But he was hurt. 

“I’m old enough and big enough to take care of 
myself and do what I like,” and she waved her hand 
to him. 

As the cab drove away he felt that it had been on 
the tip of her tongue to say that she was also rich 
enough. Ah, how she enjoyed her money. And what 
nonsense his mother had talked. Think of the pleasure 
in giving alone that Dolly got. 

“You must have a proper dressing-case,” she had 
said only the day before. He did not like to take per- 
sonal gifts from her before marriage, but he had not 
the heart to refuse. “Let’s go and get one — now.” 
She had discovered those of his smaller wants that 
were particularly irksome. And there was such virtue 
in that “now.” Not — “we must get it some day,” or 
“when our ship comes home,” or “when I think of 
it.” She was able to think and take a cab and act — 
all in the same hour — now. At lunch time: “I feel 
like lobster. Let’s have lobster. Ring the bell and 
so-and-so will go and buy a lobster — ^two lobsters.” 

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‘Tsn’t it nice to feel that you can do what you like?’’ 
she had said to him- once in an intimate moment. 

It was hardly to be said that Dolly was proud of her 
money; but she certainly did revel in it. And Wedlaw 
began to suppose that, with money, you really could 
behave as it suited your caprice. With money to back 
you up and give you moral support you might even play 
ducks and drakes with the conventions — which you cer- 
tainly must not do if you were poor. For that is cheat- 
ing Destiny. If you hadn’t got money to enjoy your- 
self with, you must lump it and not enjoy yourself. 
If you did, it meant that you became second-rate and 
contented with inferior pleasures. It meant scrappy 
meals and pits of theatres and dull entertainments with 
dull people. Or else it meant that you behaved like 
some of Dolly’s old friends. Secretly he prayed that 
she would discontinue knowing them. Some of them 
were poor, and amused themselves in cheap ways which 
attracted attention. And that sort of thing wouldn’t 
do at all. 


36 


CHAPTER IV 


D inner was over. The two men sat facing one 
another on either side of the grate, just as Wed-< 
law had planned. His guest talked as resistlessly as 
ever, and yet was always ready to refrain and listen to 
the lesser things Wedlaw had to tell him. They were 
very cosy. An oil lamp conspired with the fire to fill 
the room with a warm, yellow glow. Wickey, the land- 
lord, had just brought up a small kettle and placed it 
on the hob. The table had been drawn up within reach, 
and its red cloth was littered with creature comforts — 
wine, whiskey, a basin of sugar, a couple of lemons on 
a white plate, tobacco. Curtains of a dull indeterminate 
colour covered the windows and the white double doors 
which gave upon the bedroom. Big looking-glasses fore 
and aft, over the mantelshelf and upon the wall oppo- 
site, reflected the scene again and again in diminishing 
perspective. 

Oliver was at any rate comfortable here. He found 
his old friend in nice quarters — quiet, unpretentious lodg- 
ings in Duke Street, not pigging it, as had happened in 
the past in the outer desolation of Bloomsbury. This 
fact gave Wedlaw prodigious satisfaction. He felt that 
he owed Oliver a whole calendar of meals, so many 
more times than he in days gone by had Oliver stood 
the racket. This was but the shabby beginning of the 
repayment. When he was married ! 


37 


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Oliver Maitland was rather the older of the two — a 
tall, stooping man with a fine head. He was clean shaven 
and in moments of repose two protruding teeth caught 
his under lip and gave his mouth a curiously sulky ex- 
pression. His eyes were absolutely round. 

A knack for talking and listening, each in due season, 
for snatching at opportunities at the precise instant of 
their arising, a kind of academical pomposity which he 
affected when the moment called for it, had marked for 
him his course of life. At school, he had been one of 
those boys who without ever seeming to open a book had 
persistently gone top from first to last; though he was 
a fair athlete as well. His power of concentration was; 
only equalled by his real enjoyment of the dullest litera- 
ture of all ages. He loved to amass facts elaborated and 
commentated by stodgy minded lawyers and historians. 
As a very young man just down from the university 
his singular charm of manner and adaptability to new 
environments had earned him a private secretaryship. 
His employer was an Australian politician who distrusted 
him, but found him useful. A few years later he had 
launched out for himself, finally grew tired of colonial 
statemongery and, having a little money, determined to 
fly at higher game. In the meantime he had come home, 
as he did periodically, had crossed the Atlantic, and had 
been studying economic conditions from Great Bahama 
to Port of Spain: firstly practising as a barrister at 
Kingston and then leisurely touring from island to 
island, absorbing information which would be of use 
some day. It was notorious that the mother-country 
had from the beginning neglected her offspring in the 
Caribbean. Privately Maitland rather fancied himself 
as the saviour of the British West Indies. 

He had not seen Henry Wedlaw for three years or 

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^ H E COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


more, and there was a great deal of old ground to go 
over. It followed naturally, however, that more recent 
events should be dealt with first. There were questions 
of the day which Wedlaw always put in a leading and 
general manner. ‘‘What do you think of Cyprus?” he 
had asked. And Maitland had told him what he thought 
of Cyprus. He was also drawn out on the French cam- 
paign in Madagascar, the Chitral, the war between Japan 
and China, the policy of Lord Salisbury. And about all 
these things he had something illuminating to say, some 
apt story to repeat. He always showed inside knowl- 
edge of everything. He had denied all familiarity with 
or interest in the trouble in Cuba; yet he denied it in 
such a way — with averted gaze and cold manner — that 
he left the sensational impression of knowing far more 
about it than he thought wise to relate. He had met 
and talked familiarly with all the most interesting peo- 
ple of the day. If you expatiated on what a good fellow 
Sohnsow, the actor, was in private life (being, of course, 
rather proud of knowing him), Maitland would tell you 
how cleverly Prince Tzutchantzutch had cheated him at 
cards. 

In a few casual sentences he had disposed of the earth- 
quake at Santa Maria, his own narrow escape from 
death. “I lost all my baggage and all my money too — 
had to borrow my passage home.” 

At that Henry was sympathetic. 

“There was some rioting, wasn’t there?” he asked, 
when they had discussed the details of the loss. 

“A bit. The niggers can’t stand that sort of thing, as 
you probably learned in South America. One lot broke 
into the rum shops, and the other thought it was the day 
of judgment. The result was the same. They had to 

39 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


get the soldiers out. Then there was a bit of a scrap 
and I managed to get in it.’' 

‘‘Wish rd been there. Did you do any damage ?” 

“I shot a buck nigger who was running amok down 
the street — ^had to. But it’s not the sort of thing one 
likes to talk about.” 

Henry vaguely wondered why. Delicacy had never 
been a marked characteristic of Oliver. 

“You don’t know until you’ve been in it what that 
sort of thing means,” the latter went on. “It’s made 
a different man of me,” he added complacently. “It’s 
made me realise a few things.” 

“You look as if it had knocked you up rather. It 
must have been pretty ghastly.” 

Henry was much disappointed and probably showed 
it. He had hoped for a long and thrilling description 
of the calamity, and here was Oliver dismissing the 
subject in a few words. It was not a thing to talk 
about! Oliver must indeed have been impressed. He 
had never been sensitive to horrors in the past, and to 
judge by his tone he was not super-sensitive now. Henry, 
who in wild lands had grown fairly accustomed to blood- 
shed and death, was nonplussed. 

“When you see men you know well and have just 
been talking to stopped — ^literally — in the middle of a 
drink — smashed and mangled before your very eyes, it 
does make you think. Poor Dickie Cheap was one. D’you 
ever meet Dickie? We were in the billiard room. I 
dived under the table and that saved me. Dickie wasn’t 
quick enough. As it was I was nearly suffocated with 
plaster and dust. But they got me out after a few hours.” 

A few hours! 

“And one poor devil was caught under a beam,” he 
went on. “I found him two days afterwards. No one 
40 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


knew where he was and he hadn’t had a drop of water — 
in that climate. There was no moving him. I reckoned 
he’d live for some time yet.” 

Maitland sat up straight and shrugged his shoulders. 
“What was one to do? Put him out quick.” 

In those brief, laconic sentences, without detail, with- 
out the garnish of an unnecessary word, he contrived 
to present all the true terror of the scene. 

“You are right: only thing to do.” 

He felt inclined to say more, but held himself. 

Oliver Maitland was appropriately silent for a few 
moments. Then with a complete change of voice and 
manner, he said: — 

“I got on the track of one queer thing just before I 
went to Santa Maria. Do you remember some time 
back the fuss there was over the bank robbery at Cara- 
cas ?” 

“Yes, I do remember something about it. They caught 
one of the gang, didn’t they, and then hints were thrown 
out that the fellow was a scapegoat?” 

“That’s just it — a scapegoat. Well, about every penny 
they’d got in the whole potty little country went. There 
was the amount of fuss that you can imagine, which 
quite suddenly and very suspiciously died down. Noth- 
ing more has been said about it in the papers as far as 
I know. I was interested in the thing at the time, be- 
cause I’d been in Venezuela not long before and stopped 
at Caracas. Moreover I had my own ideas on that 
robbery, and got to know one or two folk by sight, if 
you follow me. Well, when I was in Jamaica in the 
winter I stayed for a bit with the gunners at Newcastle. 
That’s up in the hills. One day young Morton — who 
was my pal — took me for a ride further up into the 
Blue Mountains to a jolly little bungalow belonging to 

41 


iTHE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


a fellow he’d scraped acquaintance with, called d’Aurig- 
nac. You never saw such a place — ^big as bungalows 
go, and done in every way tip-top: about twenty wives 
and so on. Relays of boys coming and going from 
Kingston with supplies morning, noon and night. Cham- 
pagne cocktail within a minute of our arrival. Well, 
I knew Monsieur d’Aurignac fast enough — scraggy little 
blighter with a wall eye — though he didn’t remember me. 
But directly Morton’s attention was engaged for a mo- 
ment, I said to him in French, T had the pleasure, sir, 
of meeting you at Caracas.’ He turned a very pretty 
green, I can tell you. But he had presence of mind. 
He actually asked me where Caracas was, wasn’t it in 
[Venezuela ? — a country he’d often wanted to see. Where 
they robbed the bank,’ I answered him. 'Perhaps, sir, 
you can tell me if they ever found the thief?’ ” 

“You mean d’Aurignac was the thief?” asked Henry. 

“I’ve not a doubt of it. But, my dear chap, he was 
the bally ex-president himself !” 

“My hat, you don’t say so. By Gad, Oliver, you do 
manage to see some things.” 

Maitland laughed and lit a cigarette. 

“I have had some luck, I must admit. I heard after- 
wards he moved the next day. The Venezuelan Govern- 
ment have managed the thing beautifully — never a word 
breathed. That would be that old fox Carvalho Areas. 
You can’t teach him anything.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“He runs the show. Lord High Everything Else: 
the master mind. Shouldn’t wonder if he went halves. 
But to get back to your affairs. Of course, old man, I’m 
awfully delighted that you’ve had such good luck, but — 
well — to put it frankly, aren’t you rather rushing it? I 
42 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


must say it gave me a bit of shock whtn I got your 
letter.” 

It was no mere bit of a shock that Oliver had suffered, 
but a pang of really excruciating disappointment. 

Henry began to look uncomfortable at once. 

“No,” he answered. “Pve thought it all out and IVe 
come to the conclusion it’s time for me to settle down. 
You wait till you meet Dolly, Oliver. You won’t talk 
about rushing it, then.” 

“Now, look here, Henry. We’ve known one another 
long enough, I should hope, to say things straight. If 
it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve been devilish hard up 
and wanted a bit of fun, you would not trouble your- 
self much about marrying, eh?” 

Henry tried to frown, failed and grinned instead. He 
felt rather a despicable cur. 

“Well, no, perhaps not,” he said. 

“But for very bad luck you’d have a good bit. You 
told me about it, you know.” 

“You mean old Joe Wedlaw?” 

“I mean old Joe Wedlaw!” 

Earlier in the evening Henry asked Oliver if he had 
known the man and he muttered that he had — and then 
quickly changed the subject. 

“I was with him when he died.” 

Sub-consciously Henry had been aware all the evening 
that besides his entertaining yarns, Oliver had some- 
thing important to say and was saving it up. It seemed 
now that the moment of revelation had come. 

“I didn’t know you were a friend of his.” 

Again Oliver laughed, got out of his chair, shook him- 
self and sat down again. 

“Must one know a man intimately to be at his death- 
bed? As a matter of fact, when he was taken bad he 

43 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


sent for me as being the only white man within reach/’ 

Again he moved in his chair and flung a half-smoked 
cigarette on the floor where it lay smouldering and 
singeing the carpet. He helped himself to another, 
clumsily bent it in his fingers as he tried to light it, threw 
that away and took a third. 

*Tt was rather sudden. His place was miles up from 
Port Arkwright, and so I did what I could for him, and, 
after he died, looked after his things till someone re- 
sponsible came up from the town. He asked me to 
rout out all his papers. This must have been amongst 
them, though I didn’t find it till months afterwards. I 
was very busy at the time and had a box full of his 
things over at my place. I gathered from him he didn’t 
want them seen. He probably forgot this. They do, 
you know.” 

He took a long envelope from his breast pocket and 
handed it across to Henry. The latter noticed that his 
friend smiled — ever so slightly. 

‘‘What is it?” 

“You’d better look.” 

Henry stood up with the envelope in his hand and with 
one elbow on the mantelshelf drew out a sheet of paper. 
There was writing on it, the meaning of which came to 
him almost before he read the words. Maitland looked 
up at him. His mouth was closed and owing to those 
front teeth and the pucker they caused at either side of 
his mouth it would have been hard to say whether he 
was still smiling, or not. Without unnecessary move- 
ment he picked up Henry’s tumbler from the hearth rug, 
half filled it with whiskey and added water from the 
kettle at his elbow. It was an occasion, he considered, 
which called for strong measures, and his host had 
drunk very little during the evening. Now he had gone 
44 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


very pale, and Maitland watched his face with an in- 
terest that was almost scientific. 

After the lapse of a minute or more, Heniy pushed 
the paper back into the envelope and mechanically put 
it in his own pocket. 

‘There’s no doubt about it?” he asked. 

“Not the least. I’ve seen the witnesses. One was 
killed in the earthquake, the other’s a busher on the 
plantation. Have this.” And Oliver gave him the toddy 
he had mixed. 

Henry sat down heavily and stared first at the fire, 
then at his companion. Then, hot as it was, he drained 
the tumbler. 

“Everything — he’s left me everything.” 

^‘He has.” 

“Every — damn — thing.” 

You’re a rich man, Henry. It’s all hard cash. He 
sold the plantation some time ago.” 

“Yes. I’m a rich man.” He paused and then : “And 
I’m engaged to a girl with tuppence ha’ f penny a year. 
Oliver, why couldn’t you have found this thing sooner? 

“I’m most fearfully sorry, old man. I can’t tell you 
how sorry I am. It’s just luck. You see what I mean 
now about rushing it.” 

“I was saying to Gerald Faucet to-day,” said Henry, 
“that old Joe never could make up his mind. It must 
have been a toss-up between Claude Lowe and me.” 

He put his hands on either side of his face and his 
elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. 

«\Yell — it might be worse,” said Oliver. ‘‘I mean it s 
not too late, is it?” 

“Oh, that’s impossible.” 

“I don’t see why.” 


4S 


CHAPTER V 


W HEN events, however little they might be in 
character, thickly and quickly jostled each other in 
a day, Henry Wedlaw always found it necessary to wait 
until the night, or until whatever time the bustle and 
stir had ceased to implicate him, before he could judge 
each in its right proportion. He lacked the concentration 
and the nimble-mindedness satisfactorily to dispose of 
each incident as it occurred. 

He sat on the side of his bed, clad in an old red 
dressing-gown, smoking a pipe. He must go through 
the whole day in his mind before he could grapple with 
its latest and most signal development. There was his 
visit to Gerald, which didn’t matter, and the sudden, 
overwhelming appearance of Dolly, which did. But 
that, because it concerned Dolly, must for the moment 
be dismissed. 

It was his excitement about Oliver and his prepara- 
tions for him which he dwelt upon. In the first place 
he had been ruinously extravagant in a small way, and 
though it had been the keenest pleasure to do what he 
had done, and though he wished with all his heart that 
he could have done more, the bent of his mind for 
years had been in the direction of small expenditure, 
and in his most generous moments he could not but 
think of the balance at his bank. True that before long 
such considerations need not weigh with him — at least 
46 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


he must learn to remember, gradually, that money did 
not matter as it used to. But that again was verging 
on the newly tilled ground, a subject which must be 
kept. . . . 

Then there was Paddington, and thinking it over 
now, he was rather ashamed of himself. Really, he 
might have been a child, so excited, so impatient had he 
been. 

The boat train was late, and there was nothing to 
do. To read a paper was impossible. Time, on these 
occasions, dies very hard. So he walked up and down 
the platform and wondered. How strangely different, 
he thought, were one’s attitudes of mind in a railway 
station — going, coming, and merely waiting. Whenever 
he was on the departure platform, using it for its main 
purpose, and whenever he caught a glimpse of it, as he 
arrived at another, its character was changed. He ob- 
served it from a fresh angle. He was surprised to find 
the booking office where it was, and the notice “Station 
Master” seemed to be at the wrong end. 

Near him there was a pretty woman with a nurse 
and a baby. Her eyes were very bright, and now and 
again she whispered to the child, but her gaze ever 
returned to the far end of the station, where bright 
lights of red and green twinkled from out the filmy 
gloom. There was a fierce-looking old lady who marched 
up and down in a matter-of-fact way, and two boys talked 
excitedly, whilst a mild young man — their tutor — 
watched them. They were all waiting for the boat 
train, chafing at its tardiness. Then there were ineffec- 
tual people fussing about luggage, about tickets, about 
the time of trains. A sandy-haired little woman was 
imploring a porter, an old man was railing at a guard. 
Like all accustomed travellers, who have known what 

47 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


it is to start for the world’s end at a few hours’ notice, 
Wedlaw was mildly astonished at the extraordinary 
amount of perturbation, hubbub, turmoil, commotion, 
caused by a single railway company that proposes, with- 
out violence, to deposit its customers at Swindon, or 
perhaps Bristol. 

Jove, but Oliver must have seen something! And 
what a vile correspondent he was. But then he would 
have the more to talk about. 

Oh, damn it, there’s Burshall, coming out of the re- 
freshment-room, and Burshall has seen him and will 
hang about when he wants to be alone; and will prob- 
ably insist upon waiting for the boat train too. Burshall 
is one of those awful people whom you only meet when 
you can’t get away from them. He comes strutting up, 
very pink and fat and prosperous. He is wearing a 
diamond ring. 

“Hullo, Wedlaw, what are you up to? I’ve just 
missed my train to Maidenhead. Haven’t seen you at 
the Club lately. “How’s the fiancee?” 

Horrid person, Burshall. How he ever got into 
Barry’s Heaven alone knew. Barry’s didn’t pretend 
to be particular, but really — Burshall. The Club, Henry 
thought with a sigh, had been his one selfish extrava- 
gance since he threw up his profession. 

“I’m meeting the boat train,” he said quietly. “Mait- 
land’s coming home. You remember him?” 

The old school, of which all three had been members, 
could have been no more particular than Barry’s. There 
the fat little man had been called the Cobbercial. (You 
had a cold in the head when you said that.) 

“You mean Oliver Maitland?” Burshall frowned. 
“You’d better be careful of him. When he was in town 
last autumn ” 

48 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Henry perceptibly stiffened. A strong line must be 
taken at once. 

Maitland has not been home for over three years. 
He’s a friend of mine.” 

'‘Oh, beg pardon, grant y’ grace, I’m sure. Didn’t 
know he was a friend of yours. He was of mine — once. 
But he was home last year.” 

"Nothing of the sort, you’re mistaken.” And Henry 
indicated that the discussion was at an end and began 
to turn away. 

"Good old Bow-wow,” laughed Burshall, quite un- 
abashed. He waved his plump hand and went off toward 
the bookstall. 

"Odious little bounder,” Henry grumbled to himself, 
as he strolled away to the arrival platform. How dare 
he call him Bow-wow ? Henry would never have dreamed 
of retorting in kind, though the owner of the less pleas- 
ing nickname would take no exception to its resuscita- 
tion. 

In his own schooldays Henry had been known as 
Dog or Good Dog Tray, because he was faithful to all 
friends, but to Oliver in particular. 

The infernal impertinence, saying that Oliver had been 
home last year. 

And then silently and suddenly porters sprang up in 
dozens, where twos and threes had been before, and 
thickly lined the platform. And people craned their 
necks to catch the first sight of the long, brown, sinuous 
train curving into the huge station, like a snail into its 
shell. 

The rest of the expectant folk ran first this way and 
then that. It was a huge train and they might miss 
those they had come to meet. The pretty girl had 
seized the baby from the nurse’s arms and was gazing 

49 


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frantically down the long row of approaching windows. 
The two boys, regardless of their tutor, were capering 
about. Henry was in the middle of the platform, well 
behind the jostling ranks. He stood on tiptoe, and with 
deliberation — now that the moment had come — scruti- 
nised each emerging head as with lessening momentum 
the carriages came past. 

He doesn’t see Oliver, he doesn’t see him. The train 
has come to a standstill. Henry runs down to the far 
end — still no Oliver. He runs back again towards the 
engine, jumping in and out amongst the crowd, swerv- 
ing to avoid the trolleys that are already beginning to 
cleave their broad way towards the cabs. And then a 
lean brown hand strikes him on the back, and he turns 
to find that Oliver has seen him first. . . . 

Next Henry recalled Oliver’s not too exuberant en- 
thusiasm about his engagement — of which he had heard 
by letter some time ago at Santa Maria. Of course, 
it was a sheer convention for old friends to resent the 
idea of your marriage. Still, Henry was disappointed. 

And then there was the evening together. There were 
several points that worried him and left behind them a 
vague feeling of discontent. It was ineffably petty — the 
old training in poverty was the cause of it — but he had 
been really hurt by the various small tricks which used 
not to be Oliver’s. The latter had, for instance, helped 
himself liberally to caviare, had taken a mouthful or 
two, and had left the remainder on his plate. And Henry, 
remembering his friend’s fondness for it, had purchased 
a jar at the place for caviare. It was the same with 
everything he ate, though not with what he drank. 
The cigarettes, which he had been at such pains to 
procure, were produced after dinner. Oliver took one 
casually and lit it. 

50 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘You don't remember them," said Henry. 

Oliver had his eyes on the table at the moment, but he 
looked up suddenly. 

“Oh, yes, I do, old man. Nothing like Yeraki’s. 
Haven't had one for years." 

He made the most of it then, a shade too much if any- 
thing. But he had been “wonderfully quick, and it was 
not imtil now that Henry realised that Oliver had read 
the name on the box, and his thoughts, in one illumi- 
nated second. 

Being a conscientious man himself when another's 
belongings were involved he had suffered agonies at his 
companion's carelessness, and the savage ways he had 
picked up from his long sojourn abroad, burning ciga- 
rette ends on the floor, drinks upset, china broken, books 
dog-eared. 

Another thing, and this struck deeper. Again, it only 
occurred to him now as he sat alone. Oliver had been 
talking politics and talking rather big. He was worse 
in that respect than he used to be. He mentioned 
the name of an English Minister, and for Henry's bene- 
fit repeated a conversation he had with him after a 
Cabinet crisis — a conversation in which State secrets 
seem to have been bandied about with amazing candour. 
Now Henry suddenly recalled the fact that the crisis 
in question had only arisen during the last autumn, and 
he knew that the Minister had certainly not been as far 
away as the West Indies. Therefore, why, damn it all, 
he had lied or that little beast Burshall had been right. 
Had Oliver been home and never let him know? He 
must have lied in any case. Then he remembered his 
treatment of Gerald Faucet, and that lent probability 
to the conjecture. And — really — now he came to think 
of it in cold blood — ^that story of the e^-president— ~ 


51 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


It was all very disturbing, but Oliver doubtless had 
good reasons of his own. It was his business after all. 
It seemed that nothing could shake Henry’s faith in his 
friend. Burshall was not the only person who had 
sneered about him. People who had been with him 
at Cambridge lifted their eyebrows at the mention of 
his name. Even Gerald Faucet was annoyed with him. 
And Henry could not understand these vague enmities. 
Oliver might be a bit of a liar — even that he only now 
admitted grudgingly; but he was a good old friend 
nevertheless. 

And then — there was the news. And when in his 
methodical way he had relieved his mind of all this in- 
significant lumber, Henry began to pace up and down the 
tiny room. 

Again and again he restated the whole case to him- 
self. Old Wedlaw had been distantly connected both 
with Claude Lowe and himself. He had known them 
both as children. He had made a will leaving his 
money to Lowe. That was normal enough. It might 
have been expected if one knew the circumstances. 
Claude Lowe had died shortly after he had inherited, 
leaving the money again to his niece DoUy. Henry had 
hunted gold and had become engaged to Dolly. And 
now it turned out that Wedlaw had made a second will, 
revoking the first, and in his, Henry’s, favour. Lowe’s 
only will was as worthless as Wedlaw’s first. 

He sat down again on the bed. He was rich. He had 
not wanted in the least to marry. 

And some decision must be made at once. There 
seemed but two alternatives; to marry or not to marry. 
In the first case it would be said that he was keeping 
his contract in spite of fresh developments, and Dolly 
would be pitied by common-minded people, who would 
52 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


say, ‘"Ah, it's lucky you caught him when you did." 
If he broke off the engagement, they would say more, 
they would have things to say about him as well: and 
besides, quite apart from that, it would be a detestable 
thing to do. Oliver couldn’t have realised what counsel 
he was offering. 

And then the problem presented itself in a purely 
individual aspect. For once in his life the execration 
or applause of others dwindled to a scant significance. 
He thought of Dolly, her joy in being welLto-do. For 
a moment he caught of her a mental vision of his own 
imagining — self-satisfied, complacent, smug, easy and 
idle, with the money that had come to her by chance, the 
middling, tolerable wherewithal that now was his. She 
had money. Therefore, she argued, she could do what 
she liked, and disregard a wise convention. That fancy 
went, and — ever ready to return — himself it was that 
filled the place. 

For a long time he thought, or tried to think. Really 
he must hurry up and settle what to do. He lit his pipe 
again, moved drearily about and began to right the small 
disorders of the room. One of his brushes lay on its 
back. He turned it over to match its fellow. From 
beneath the dressing-table a pair of boots protruded. 
He pushed them back. The basket that contained his 
sponge was hanging crooked. He straightened it. There 
were his clothes to be brushed. He laid them on the 
bed and went over them carefully; trousers to be pressed. 
If you were poor, you could make certain things for 
yourself. He screwed up his home-made press with a 
certain satisfaction and hung it behind a curtain in a 
corner of the room. How he looked forward to the 
time when he could make for himself more interesting 
things than trousers presses. . . . 


53 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


But the room was tidy now to the smallest detail. 
There was nothing else to do but to go on thinking. . . . 

Dolly was astonishingly happy with her money — • 
astonishingly, because it was hard to be rid of the com- 
fortable old platitudes on which he had been brought 
up. It was so easy to despise money, to deny its efficacy 
as a conveyance of bliss. People who need give no 
thought for the morrow, neither as to what they should 
eat, nor (being of a certain sort) what they should put 
on, were happily enabled to stake their whole mental 
force on wider issues. The fact that they often did not 
take advantage of the opportunity, he neglected for the 
moment. If you are permanently free of small worries 
you can the better cope with large ones. Henry had 
not known Dolly in the days before her inheritance; 
but that must have been the cause of her breadth of 
outlook. She had completely rid herself of the petty 
attitude of mind which, he supposed, were inseparable 
from the poor estate. Yes, Dolly — dear old bouncing, 
bubbling Dolly — was full of life and love and energy. 
She had the absolute assurance of a woman well dressed. 
She must feel that she was somebody because she had 
something. And before? Oh, a gauche enough girl, 
he expected, a self-conscious stick. 

And now they had changed places and her money was 
his money, his the whip hand. 

‘T might do this or I might do that,” or — “by Heaven, 
— that’s a new idea — I might do the other!” 

Minutes went by. And then, not loud nor joyfully, 
he laughed. 


54 


CHAPTER VI 


T T was only by putting himself out, literally and fig- 
uratively, that Henry had been able to find a room 
for Oliver Maitland. It had seemed to him the depth 
of inhospitality to allow his friend to go, in the small 
hours, to sleep at some hotel. The house was fully 
inhabited, but after consultation with Wickey an attic 
had been discovered which would serve Henry at least 
for a night or two: and then Oliver could have his 
room. 

So he took possession. It must have been perfectly 
obvious, from the fact that bed and sitting-room opened 
from each other, that he was an usurper. But he took 
it as a matter of course and did not so much as acknowl- 
edge the fact. 

A room, wherever it was, soon began to show signs 
of Maitland's occupation. Chairs would be piled with 
books, drawers would be hanging out as though the 
place had been rifled, bags and portmanteaus never totally 
unpacked, would strew the floor, whilst every place be- 
tween would be littered with papers, clothes, and crum- 
pled linen. Cigar ash would be everywhere, somewhere 
a glass. 

There had been little talking between the two men 
after Henry had read the will, and for a while after the 
latter had gone upstairs Maitland had been brooding 

55 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


before the fire, scheming, inventing. With Henry and 
others he would hatch plots for the manufacture of 
wealth, or the furtherance of various ambitions. But 
they were not the plots that came to him alone in the 
middle of the night. These were the likeliest and the 
best, and he was not such a fool as to share them with 
others. To-night he was cursing adverse fortune rather 
than engaged in creative speculation. His discovery of 
Wedlaw’s second will had been the signal for a splendid 
hope, dashed to the ground only a day or two later 
by the news of Henry’s engagement. Dear old Bow- 
wow would certainly have been generous — he had been 
always ready to do anything for him for the last fifteen 
years. As at school, so now it had been Master and 
Dog Tray. And in consideration of his discovery — 
Oliver ground his teeth to think what percentage almost 
certainly would have fallen to his lot. He had felt that 
he could do anything he liked with Henry Wedlaw. He 
would listen to any story; and Oliver had already pre- 
pared a very touching and convincing one. And then 
after he had got engaged to Dolly Lowe he must needs 
beset himself with sentimental scruples. That was the 
worst of those damned, faithful, idiotic people. . . . 

He helped himself to another drink, another cigarette, 
and set to work on his nightly task of turning out his 
pockets, sorting the letters and papers he found therein, 
and throwing away those for which he had no use. 
To-night there was a much larger accumulation than 
usual, for a heavy post had awaited the arrival of his 
ship. And soon the grate was littered with balls of 
paper, whilst here and there a flakey ash trembled 
amongst the flames. 

After a while Maitland turned in and lay abed, dis- 
inclined to sleep, concocting a suitable excuse for Gerald 

56 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Faucet. When he wrote to Henry he had made up his 
mind to let Faucet know of his return home, and so did 
not warn the former to be silent. Later he changed his 
mind. And Henry had told him of Faucet’s plain an- 
noyance, and so now he must soothe him. 

Henry was the older friend, Faucet the more useful. 
It was through the former that he had come to know the 
amateur clergyman, upon whose great kindness of heart 
he had successfully worked. In a dozen ways, but par- 
ticularly in one, he had helped Oliver during his brief 
visits to England. 

Henry had been talking about the cement, which Faucet 
had invented, for mending china. He had declared that 
money was in it. Henry had waxed eloquent on his 
folly and had shown Oliver the specimen that Faucet 
had given him. He had left it on the mantelshelf, for- 
getting all about it. Maitland sniggered to himself. It 
was not on the mantelshelf now. 

Through the folding doors, which he had left open 
for the sake of air, he watched the firelight flickering on 
the ceiling of the sitting room. He wondered what 
Henry would do, whether he was indeed bent on playing 
the fool, or whether the cool deliberation of morning 
would find for him his senses. 

It was just about then that Henry laughed. It would 
have interested Maitland to know that. He was not 
accustomed to Henry’s laughter over money matters. 

He was beginning to grow drowsy himself, and in- 
deed thinking of it afterwards he was not at all sure 
that he had not just for a moment dropped asleep, when 
a slight creaking of the stairs and then the rattling of 
a door handle restored his vigilant consciousness. The 
open doorway before him suddenly became more brightly 

57 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


outlined by the light of a candle. Henry had come down 
for something. 

In another moment the light became still; the candle 
had been put on the table, and then the figure of Henry 
crossed Maitland's line of vision. 

He was just about to speak when his almost devilish 
instinct for caution asserted itself and he kept quiet. 

Henry’s movements were stealthy, and from the way 
in which he paused he seemed to be listening. The 
next instant this was certified by his appearance at the 
open door. He was clearly anxious to make sure that 
his guest was asleep. Satisfied on that point he went 
to a desk at the side of the room between the two win- 
dows, and though he could not see him, Maitland heard 
the pulling open of a drawer. He shifted his position 
in bed a little and with his head right up against the 
wall he could see all that his friend was doing. 

In his hand Henry held the will which he had just 
taken from its envelope. He was reading it again, 
slowly, deliberately. There was nothing to be learned 
from his face. 

‘Thought it was too good to be true,” said Maitland 
to himself. “Good ! Perhaps that means he's going to 
change his mind." 

For a moment he debated whether he should leave him 
alone or whether he should speak, when an uncontrollable 
desire to sneeze determined his course. 

At the sudden noise Henry looked up quickly, and 
Maitland immediately spoke. 

“Hullo," he said in a sleepy voice and yawning. “Is 
that you, old man?" 

“Yes, sorry if I woke you. Are you all right?" 

Maitland sat up in bed. “What's the time?" he asked. 

“About two. I say, Oliver, promise me something." 

58 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Maitland slipped out of bed and, coming into the 
sitting-room, took up his stand by the dying fire. 

'‘Yes — what is it?” 

Henry sat on the edge of the table and looked at him 
straightly. 

"Don't you say anything about this will, and I won’t 
either.” 

"What the devil do you mean?” asked Maitland, 
leaning forward, his long neck stretched grotesquely 
from the collar of his nightshirt. "What do you mean?” 

"What I say,” Henry had never been cooler, more 
impassive. "Fve made up my mind to let things take 
their course just as though this second will had never 
been found. I shall say nothing about it, so mind you 
don't.” 

Oliver Maitland had accustomed himself to surprise 
in many circumstances, but his case-hardening was not 
proof against this. That Henry — Bow-wow — should 
turn round and do something outside his calculations 
was beyond the furtherest reach of his anticipation. 
He craned forward, his round eyes glaring with furious 
astonishment, "But — why, man, why?” 

"I can't go into all that now. But it's better like 
that. Simply forget the second will. Treat it as though 
it never existed.” 

And so saying he thrust the paper into the pocket of 
his dressing-gown. 

"But you're mad, Henry. You can't be thinking of 
what you're doing. Or are you drunk, or what ? Calmly 
to throw away a small fortune — and how delighted I 
thought you'd be. It isn't every day one can be the 
bearer of good news like that.” 

"Sorry, Oliver. I'm none the less grateful to you, 

59 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


but there it is. After all, rm marrying the girl who has 
the money, so it's much the same thing.” 

“Oh, is it! Well, it’s your aflFair. I suppose you’ve 
got some damned sentimental reason at the back of your 
head. I can’t help it.” 

“Well, I’ve your word, you’ll hold your tongue any- 
how.” 

“Oh, I’ll say nothing, but what in hell induced you 


“You get along back to bed,” said Henry. “And I’ll 
do the same. Good night.” 


6o 


CHAPTER VII 


W HY is it,” asked Dolly, ‘'that when poor people 
are your relations they’re dull, and when they’re 
not, they’re not? I’ve always suffered from too many 
relations.” 

“Instead of which you are now going to suffer from 
one.” 

And Bella Keene, whose privilege it was to talk like 
that, opened her enormous mouth and rolled her eyes. 
It was her boast and her friends’ that she was the 
ugliest woman in London. “But such a good face,” her 
people used to say. Her hair was nondescript in colour, 
nearly sandy in the sun, quite drab out of it, untidy 
always. She was fat and she had a ferocious squint, 
she was Battered and weather-beaten, she was like a man 
masquerading in female attire : thirty years of age, noisy, 
fond of her dinner. She played the most remarkable 
hand at whist. 

They were walking slowly down the west side of 
Regent Street, towards the New Gallery, where there 
was an exhibition of Venetian pictures. 

“Yes,” Dolly went on, “I’m going to put all my eggs 
in one basket, and I’m going to have a house in the 
country — ^think of that — and horses and cows and pigs — 
so that I can scratch their backs. And 3. wee house here 
later on. And I’m going to have four lovely babies — all 
boys.” 


6i 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘Tf you don’t mind you’ll have a dozen — all girls.” 

‘T shall do nothing of the sort. Oh — and I shall 
always have Elvas plums.” 

''Make it mushrooms and I’ll come and stay with you. 
But what’s your quarrel with relations! I’ve got ’em 
also — ^poor too. It’s the fashion to sneer at relations, I 
suppose.” 

"What’s the fashion to-day is the fact to-morrow. But 
for Heaven’s sake don’t accuse me of being fashionable.” 

Bella laughed — quietly for her. 

"I love you, Dolly,” she said in a rich bass voice. 
"If I remember that in twenty years’ time I shall be 
able to tell the date by it.” 

"Well, just look at them,” Dolly went on, disregarding 
her friend, and not to be baulked of her grievous recital. 
"Only look at them. I’ve got more cousins than anybody 
else on earth, and of all possible kinds; one’s a Privy 
Councillor, and a general — only he’s an uncle ; and one’s 
a policeman — not a very near cousin, though ; and there 
are two or three belted earls, a lady-in-waiting, and a 
fishwife — that’s the same lot as the policeman — a real 
fishwife with a red face and arms akimbo. My rela- 
tions include absolutely everybody and absolutely no- 
body — if you know what I mean.” 

"You’re a thoroughbred mongrel, my dear, as you’ve 
often said, and you wouldn’t be you unless. But you’re 
not troubled by your fishwife cousin, so don’t pretend 
you are.” 

"No, I’ve never met the lady and don’t mean to. 
When I was about sixteen I used to think my people 
shocking snobs for not countenancing them. But I see 
now they weren’t. I really don’t see why the indiscre- 
tions of the grandfather should be visited by the grand- 
children, so to speak,” 

62 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘No, dear,’’ laughed Bella, “of course not. They’re 
much happier as they are.” 

“But think of these people — I mean my other rela- 
tions. Their change of attitude since Uncle Claude left 
me all his money is the funniest and the most disgusting 
thing on earth. It makes me scream with laughter and 
rage alternately. They all hated Uncle Claude because 
he wasn’t afraid of anybody and never cared a scrap 
what anybody thought of him, and wouldn’t go to 
church. The poor ones look at me in a sort of nervous 
way and assume that now I shan’t want to know them : 
or like Aunt Anna, they talk about worldliness and the 
root of all evil, or else bombard me with applications 
for missionary societies and things: or again some of 
them really seem to think there’s something praiseworthy 
in being comfortably off. That's so horrible. And the 
other lot who couldn’t be bothered with me before are 
making overtures in the most brazen way.” 

“Of the two I prefer them,” Bella answered. “It’s 
true they might have been generous to you as a poor 
relation, but you wouldn’t have wanted that.” 

“No reason why they shouldn’t have tried.” 

“Let me finish. You wouldn’t have liked being in 
their set, without being able to do the thing properly. 
Now that you can, they open their arms.” 

“They will shut them on empty air. I’m done with 
relations. That is to say I’ve got it definitely fixed now 
in my funny little mind that I won’t have anything to 
do with them. I never have for that matter. Mother 
doesn’t like them any more than I do, only she thinks 
that because her brother, who is nothing whatever to 
do with me, married someone-or-other who is still less, 
that someone-or-other’s brats must be my bosom friends. 

I don’t see it. But I will say this for mother, because she 

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has married again she doesn’t expect me to care about 
Father Ralph as I call him.” 

‘‘As a natural consequence of which you do.” 

“Oh, he’s really rather a nice old thing. But that’s 
just what I say. If your relations happen to please you, 
let them. But, it’s the pleasing that’s of consequence, not 
the relationship.” 

“Old association usually has a word to say.” 

“It may say it then. I’m going to be me, really me, 
and have my own friends. Also, I won’t subscribe to 
missionary societies — so there!” 

“They’ll say you’re mean,” said Bella, goggling her 
eyes in appreciation of such an absurdity. 

“Let ’em. Now we’ll go and look at lovely pictures 
and be uplifted.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to know,” said Bella as they 
entered the first room, “that there’s a little book about 
How to Visit a Picture Gallery.” 

“I might have guessed it. I can very well imagine 
the earnest young person who wrote it. This country’s 
beginning to fill up with earnest young persons. I wish 
it wouldn’t.” 

“I don’t,” said Bella, “because they amuse me so 
much. Some of them are so desperately in earnest about 
not being earnest.” 

“That was said from the heights of an inconsolable 
old age. But I know how to look at pictures already. 
Firstly, if a picture is worth looking at at all, it is worth 
looking at for a long time, and — Bella, Bella, look at 
her,” she cried out in rapture. ^‘Oh, why have I never 
seen her before! I’m going to stop here all the time. 
You dash along and see them all and come back here 
for me. I don’t want to see anything else — I shouldn’t 

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have the strength to. Leave me alone, there's a dear, 
and let me enjoy it." 

Dolly sat down, leaving Bella to explore the whole 
gallery in the exhaustive and exhausting way which 
pleased her. And Bella, well acquainted with the girl's 
quick enthusiasms and genuine eagerness, nodded with a 
vigour that almost displaced her hat, and marched off, 
the creaking of her boots vieing with the tramp of them. 

Dolly disdained the use of a catalogue on these occa- 
sions, just as she objected to programmes at a theatre, 
or chapter headings in books. Art was what interested 
her, explanatory embellishments did not. But she knew 
what it was that had captured her immediate attention — 
one of Titian’s pictures of Caterina Cornaro, Queen of 
Cyrpus. 

It happened within the course of the next few minutes 
that people passing in front of Dolly and pausing to 
observe the same picture, would interrupt her own ardent 
gaze. These, as a rule, stood on either side and hands 
on knees bent over that she might see beneath the arch- 
way that they made. But one couple, a man and a 
woman, held their stand before her with such persistence 
that she tired of dodging her head this way and that 
to catch fleeting glimpses of the picture. Until they 
moved she allowed her attention to be held by them. 
This was scarcely to be wondered at even in the case 
of so wistful a lover of Art as Dolly; for more than 
once she caught the woman’s swift glance upon her and 
her companion’s too. Moreover, after a moment or two 
they began to talk in an eager undertone. 

The woman was the elder of the two — so Dolly’s 
thoughts ran — five and thirty, perhaps, a little, pretty- 
faced, helpless creature — too helpless — almost design- 
edly helpless, judging from the jewelled perfection of 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


her clothes and the ease with which she wore them. 
Her hair was golden, with a glint of flame in it. The 
man was tall, inclined to stoop, and sunburnt. He wore 
a very high collar at a time when it was fashionable to 
do so, but when fashion expected too much of her 
votaries less fortunate than this man in the length of 
their necks. And he had two very white protruding 
teeth. 

She had seen him before. Where? He was someone 
well known — she had seen his picture in the Graphicf 
No. The clothes, the collar had hindered her memory, 
though the teeth assured it. Henry had shown her a 
dim snapshot. It was Oliver Maitland. 

In another moment they had gone away, with — on the 
woman's part — a backward look at Dolly. 

very exciting looking man," said she to herself. 
‘T wonder who she is? They couldn’t have recognised 
me and yet why did they stare ?’’ 

She had returned to the contemplation of the picture 
when Bella stumped back again. 

^T think I’ve seen the lot,’’ she said, religiously stop- 
ping in front of the next picture on the left of Caterina. 
‘^What about tea?’’ 

‘‘Tea, by all means. I’ve just seen Henry’s friend, 
Oliver Maitland — at least it must be him — with a lady 
fair. They were horribly rude and got between me and 
Caterina so that I couldn’t see, and whispered and stared. 
I shall talk to Master Henry about it.’’ 

“I suppose he knew who you were.’’ 

“If he had he couldn’t have behaved like that. Bella, 
you old Philistine, I suppose it’s no good trying to make 
you appreciate things, but isn’t she lovely? I can’t tell 
you why it is exactly, but that picture’s got hold of me. 
Caterina must have been a delightful creature. There’s 
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a fat, jovial expression about her lips that’s inexpressibly 
alluring. They suggest red wine and laughter and kisses. 
I should love her if I were a man. And her eyes curl 
if you know what I mean. She’s looking at you in a 
slow, lazy way with something cattish about it — with the 
comfortableness of a cat, I mean. Oh, she’s a scrump- 
tious person.” 

‘T expect,” said Bella, as Dolly rose to get a final 
glimpse of the picture, ‘T expect she was very ordinary 
really, only Titian, seeing she was Queen of Cyrpus, 
gave her the expression of Venus. And she wasn’t, you 
know. She had all the domestic virtues, and they gave 
her a most expensive funeral. But do you mean to 
tell me you don’t know why they stared at you? Look 
in a glass, my friend, and don’t fancy I’m flattering you. 
You’re a better looking, but nevertheless living image 
of Caterina. Funny how people never recognise their 
own likenesses.” 

‘^How perfectly delightful, Bella. I’m not!” And 
she ran back from the door to look again. 

'T couldn’t make out,” said Bella on her return, ''why 
you were so struck with it. Now I know. You were 
getting quite sentimental. It’s a good picture and I 
thought that was all that mattered to you.” 

"So it does generally. But now I quite admit the 
purely emotional appeal. Caterina touches’ me as the 
infant Samuel touches other people. By the way it’s 
funny to find you on the side of the angels, Bella.” 

"Not on the side of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, dear.” 

Dolly was delighted with Bella for saying that. For 
days on end she would be a perfectly customary person 
save for her really astonishing ugliness. And then just 
when you were beginning to think her a bore, .she would 
wake up and surprise you. It might be only ju3t a little 


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gentle surprise such as an expression of disrespect for 
paintings of cherubs, but it was enough to show Dolly 
that she was at least in modified correspondence with 
the humour of the moment, and not the glum-minded 
elder that, from her face, would be expected. 

Dolly was prone to divide the world into what she 
called ordinary people and tiresome people. She herself 
belonged to the latter category. Tiresome people were 
opposed to Philistinism. They exercised the faculty of 
choice, taking or rejecting as it pleased them; tradi- 
tion was to be accepted by them according only to its 
strict intrinsic value; what was good enough for their 
fathers might not be, and probably was not, good enough 
for them; they were individuals; they read the Yellow 
Book. If you wanted to be tiresome, you had always 
to be subtle ; your eyebrows must be subtle ; subtle your 
handwriting: perfumed sins were also a recommenda- 
tion. 

Without actually doing anythifig/ with no professional 
mission to undertake, Dolly was a vehement recruit to 
several of the new movements. Her mind was much 
occupied with eager detestations. At the same time she 
kept her head, showing a Victorian stability of character 
by despising effeminate men, and scorning the physical 
anomaly of the New Woman as much as the flaccidity 
of her extreme opposite. Her abomination of Chadband 
was healthy and usual; but just as genuine was her 
contempt for Dora Copperfield. 

She was quick to see the root of any contention, to 
observe the difference between inspiration and affecta- 
tion. If she wanted to ride a bicycle she rode a bicycle. 
If her friends asked her to play hockey she refused. 
The game did not amuse her. For her the only possible 
reason for playing it would have been desire to impress 
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others with her strength or daring or fleetness of foot, 
and she had little wish to pose. 

Her delight in a particular painting, and her talk 
with Bella Keene, brought her thoughts, with a certain 
uneasiness and hesitation, to Henry Wedlaw. How much 
sympathy would he be able to spare for what was after 
all no merely superficial and transient inclination on 
her part, but an attitude into which her mind had nat- 
urally developed and which she knew she could never 
entirely relinquish? ‘‘People who marry their opposites 
are always happiest” — was the kind of burgess-ridden 
axiom which had often been dinned into her unwilling 
ears. And at one time, not so very long ago, usual 
perversity would have found in that fact alone prohibi- 
tion enough. Ardent as she was in a dozen ways to 
realise what some of her friends insisted upon calling 
her Ego; enthusiastic to occupy herself ornamentally or, 
at the worst, usefully; unlike many of her comrades of 
the moment she was full of romantic longings, anxious 
for the savage fulfilment of her womanhood. Com- 
bining what she called her tiresomeness with this desire 
she dreamed of beautiful unions with transcendental 
young men, and the kind of life naturally induced by 
the surreptitious reading of “Trilby” at a continental 
girls’ school. Upon her vehemently awaited emancipa- 
tion she had met transcendental young men; whereupon 
her level-headedness asserted itself. It was painful to 
be disillusioned, but she did not, after a lesson or two, 
shirk the pain. There were three incidents, one after 
another — so ephemeral as scarcely to earn the name 
affaire. 

First came Thomas Balliard, painter and socialist. 
He was devoted. His work was of a high order. He 
not only ignored the Royal Academy, but was esteemed 

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by Royal Academicians. He was desperately hard work- 
ing, and he was kind to animals. But he was so over- 
come when he learned of the related earls that he imme- 
diately produced an uncle who, besides being a detested 
capitalist, was also an alderman and a knight. There 
was a good deal more of Thomas in the same strain. . . . 

Secondly there was Felix Brougham (nee Timmins), 
actor; but even before he found himself unable to en- 
dure the fishwife connection, Dolly had not been quite 
satisfied in her mind that during the day he absolved 
himself from the nightly bedizening of his eyes. 

Naphthali Roberts was the third. He had larts of 
money and said so. He was young, wholesome and 
optimistic. He was unable to make up his mind whether 
to write poems, to paint portraits, or to become London 
agent for his father’s Californian plum farm. He called 
upon Dolly to help him decide; which she did. 

After that she came to the conclusion that she would 
marry her opposite. 

Henry was, most emphatically, all that she was not. 
He seemed to her most utterly an Englishman. He 
could not, she reckoned, be of the insular, purblind, 
prejudiced sort, because he had for so long lived abroad. 
There was always about him the suggestion of the sol- 
dier — quiet, unemotional, but not lacking in fun or ten- 
derness. It was always refreshing to see Henry — good 
looking, clear skinned, well washed, muscular. He car- 
ried his close cropped head erect, and the smooth, firm, 
sunburnt face of him was a continual summons to her 
caress. He had a dear little house in the country empty 
for some time past — so her aunt told her — and needing 
alteration and repair. It was his very own and it had 
belonged to his mother before him. The fact of this 
possession had little significance, for Dolly, save that it 
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meant a home and not a fresh emerging into pastures 
new ; and also it was nice to restore to Henry the power 
of living where he belonged. And he was poor. She 
had known folk harassed by the lack of means. From 
childhood she herself had been brought up to contrive, 
concoct and scheme. She knew how two ends can be 
made to meet — with an old bootlace, some makeshift, 
deputy or substitute. She knew why Henry pushed back 
his cuffs, she knew the smell of benzoin from his clothes. 
Well, she would be able to look after him, and all these 
trifling cares eliminate. She dared say that he was not 
heedless of her money. Poor old boy, he was but hu- 
man. . . . But he was a man — her man. The woman 
in her rejoiced in him; an aesthete, she delighted in his 
looks. What his behaviour had been like in the past 
she did not seek to know. He was a dear ; he was some- 
one to be proud of ; the pair of them would not pass 
unnoticed in any crowd. Her love was the creature of 
a headlong impulse, and the quick-rushing blood of her 

was stirred by him. But — but 

But it was not the smallest use disguising the fact that 
Henry was an arrant Philistine. When she first met him, 
she had thought otherwise. But now she realised that 
he cared nothing for beauty — that was solely the prov- 
ince of women and dealers. He liked pictures, he liked 
music, he liked books — there was a social excuse for 
them. They were something to talk about, but not to 
talk about too much or too intimately. With him some 
things would be difficult of discussion — better left alone. 
Granting a certain expansion of border line, they liked 
very much the same sort of people, she thought, even if 
the liking was inspired by different reasons. And — ■ 
what did it all matter? T|his was only the crust of 

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things, and between husband and wife it was the depths 
that signified. 

And then all uneasiness and halting fled away before 
the surging stream of her desire. 


72 


CHAPTER VIII 


H enry set out to St. John’s Wood alone one after- 
noon, walking for the sake of exercise, and stead- 
fastly keeping his mind from the imminent prospect. 
There were plenty of other things to be pondered. 

A week had passed since he had come to his irre- 
vocable decision: and during that time he had been 
dazed. He found himself unable to think about the 
choice that he had made. And since the morning after- 
wards when it had been necessary to face the wrath of 
Oliver, he had been silent on the subject. 

Oliver had been really angry. Plis indignant surprise 
of the early hours had grown into genuine disgust. He 
had called Henry every kind of fool. 

"'I should never have thought you were such a senti- 
mental ass,” he said, for to Oliver Maitland anything 
that seemed to indicate some small forgetfulness of self 
was sentimental. 

“It’s not a question of sentiment,” Henry answered. 
“Anyway, you’re old enough not to want to play 
Don Quixote,” said Maitland. 

“Hi-oti,” corrected Henry, having nothing else to say. 
But for the time being at all events, the schemer was 
helpless. Frankly considering himself a knave, his in- 
tolerance of what he regarded as the fool in his friend 

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was characteristic. There was always hope so long as 
the document was in existence. Something might hap- 
pen to make Henry regret his rashness, and then perhaps 
Oliver would benefit. 

In the meantime Henry refused to discuss the ques- 
tion. Now and again he chuckled to himself and rubbed 
his hands, and then he would stop suddenly and reso- 
lutely think about something else. During that week he 
avoided Dolly. 

On the face of it the whole sequence of events was 
perfectly simple. Old Joe had left him his money, but 
since someone else was already enjoying it and would 
soon be sharing it with him, he had determined to leave 
well alone. 

Now he concentrated his mind on the good time he 
was going to enjoy in the future. Often in long marches 
in the camp of Uruguay, or in the nightly solitudes of 
the Andes, or again and again at home, where imagina- 
tion was succoured and nourished at every turn, he had 
built his modest but inviting castle. When nothing else 
was pressing on his mind or when — as in the present 
instance — the pressure had become a burden, he liked to 
make his vague and comfortable plans as he walked. 
So now as he went towards St. John’s Wood he began 
to build. 

At last he would do things properly. He would live 
at Needs, his own house, and farm his own little bit 
of land. The place had been part of his small patri- 
mony. None of his family had lived there during the 
past decade or two, but there would always be the in- 
effable sense of returning home. And all things con- 
sidered Henry preferred Needs to the more imposing 
dwelling which awaited the marriage and settling down 
of his elder brother. It was to be improved a good 
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deal; there was to be a billiard room. Dolly and he 
were going down to Clenham the following week to 
stay with the Graham Faucets, who would be their near- 
est neighbours; and they were going over the old place 
with an architect. Dolly would be very happy there. 
Having spent all her life hitherto in towns, the country 
appealed very strongly to her. And if she wanted a 
change they could always take a house in London. Also 
they would travel, and travel comfortably. For a while 
Henry made his plans in outline. Looking into the 
future, he regarded the easy tranquillity of the life of 
a squireen. The Faucets he had known from child- 
hood. But Graham, of whom for some years he had 
seen very little, was certain to be a more sortable com- 
panion than his brother. Their outlook would be pre- 
sumably identical. Their wives would certainly be good 
friends. Their fathers had been most intimate cronies, 
in spite of the gulf of difference in their respective in- 
comes. The Faucets had always been rich, the Wedlaws 
generally poor. 

With the walls of his castle vaguely planned in his 
mind he began to think of the interior, the details — 
more particularly as they applied to himself. 

To begin at the beginning, his man would call him 
early and bring tea on a nicely laid tray, not ja common 
or garden black tin tray, but a very good sort of tray. 
For a moment or two he worried himself with think- 
ing exactly what kind of tray it would be. So far trays 
had never come into his life as trays. They were the 
mere vehicles of tea. That was one of the things that, 
as a married man, he must learn — to regard trays as 
trays. 

Well, then, while he was drinking his tea, the man 
would lay out his clothes. He must know his business : 

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I'HE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


everything would be beautifully brushed and spick and 
span. His boots — those unostentatious-looking boots 
which whispered their perfect comfort, their water-tight- 
ness, their resistance to wear — these would gleam bril- 
liant in the morning sun. The trees, moreover, should 
be well thrust home ; not in the uneven, incompetent way 
of some servants. Bad boots and ill-laid meals lay 
heavily on the mind of a man well brought up and with 
instincts for the best. 

Should the man shave him ? A debatable point. Cer- 
tain things were much better done for oneself, and to 
have the fellow’s fingers pawing your face. . . . 

Dolly might possibly come in her dressing-gown and 
sit on his bed for a minute or two. He distinctly looked 
forward to seeing Dolly with her hair down. 

So nicely would the times of his several tasks be 
ordered that he would never hurry. He would dress 
leisurely, not dawdling, but never worrying lest he 
should be late. And his horse would be brought round 
to the door at the precise moment that he reached the 
bottom of the stairs. As a boy he had gone to the 
stables and saddled his own pony and his brother’s too, 
had been sworn at very roundly if the latter’s girths had 
not been drawn up to the right hole. That sort of thing 
was very well for boys. Fancy, he had been a boy 
once, and had fagged for old Michael. It seemed ridic- 
ulous. 

He would have a nice healthy gallop and would be 
out for three quarters of an hour. He would then re- 
turn to breakfast with Dolly, after which he would read 
letters and write them and look at the paper. 

At the thought of Dolly all his building crumbled to 
forgotten dust, and he remembered with loathing what 
he was about to do, whither he was walking. 

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He was faced by an unpleasant duty. For days past 
it had become increasingly imperative that he should 
acquit himself of it, have done with it. There was 
someone to whom he must bid goodbye. He was 
shortly to be married and, of course, respectable. The 
past, mild though it had been in his own case, was 
exceedingly disgusting. And he dreaded his task, not 
for its intrinsic perplexities which might certainly be 
considerable, but because it would remind him of the folly 
of youth. Nevertheless, he felt that a formal farewell 
ought to be customary in such a case, and he would not 
on any account shirk it. 

It was all very horrible, but Minnie was a good-hearted 
old girl; hard-up but always anxious to be as open- 
handed as she was open-hearted. And of the hand at 
least he had never taken advantage, and he thanked God 
for it. He was not that sort. He would take nothing 
from a woman — oh, nothing. 

Poor Minnie, what a time had passed since they had 
first met. Five years, was it — six ? And there had been 
jolly occasions — jolly? Perish the vile thought! He 
had grown older and had learned much. One did, did 
one not? As a bachelor one sometimes sank to a pot- 
house level of depravity. One had low tastes, which 
the responsibilities of marriage, the comfort of a settled 
existence would eliminate. That sort of fooling was 
practically inevitable. Somebody had told him once that 
Byron — no, not Byron : Byron was another pair of shoes 
altogether — ^but one of the poets, Tennyson perhaps or 
Longfellow — had written something about being faith- 
ful to your wife before you so much as met the good 
lady. Well — really, thought Henry to himself — really! 
And some men were such unspeakable jackasses as to 
go and tell their wives about any previous little 

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episode : which, he reflected, wasn’t ordinarily decent. 
Besides, that sort of thing wouldn’t do. But after you 
were married you were bound to be faithful, bound 
by your word of honour, which — however much you dis- 
regarded the religious ceremony — ^you gave of your own 
accord and with your eyes open. An overpowering de- 
sire came upon him to turn tail on his disgusting quest. 

He was going because he felt that it was the thing 
to do, not because it was the right thing. And such a 
purpose was easily frustrated. To think of Dolly and — 
that other — in the same moment was blasphemously 
detestable. 

Henry stood still. His going to St. John’s Wood 
was now quite out of the question. It was a marvel he 
had not seen that before. He wondered what he should 
do, and as he waited he looked about him. He found it 
extraordinarily difficult to make up his mind about the 
scene. At one moment it seemed terrible and depressing, 
in the next, exciting and lively. Henry had never re- 
garded London as a place where there was ‘‘scenery” 
or “views ;” it was only a large mart. And yet at the 
moment he was not surprised at himself. He was just 
filled with a new curiosity. 

The street was a riot of horror. The sorry but re- 
vealing light was riven here and there with brilliance: 
yellow in ragged shreds across the road and yellow in 
the flaunting windows. And everywhere was vile ad- 
vertisement — ^housetops crudely glittering with words of 
flame, corners all panoplied with vulgar proclamations, 
debased architecture embellished with crude devices and 
flashy emblems. Hoarse shouting ruffians by the entry 
of a narrow slum plied their trade in rotting fruit by 
the light of evil smelling flares. And traffic filled the 
road between — ’buses clattering on their way from 


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horrid goal to horrid goal, hansoms dashing here and 
there, and drays and vans and lorries and growlers flitted, 
splashed, pushed, shifted and glided, rolled and swept, 
to and fro and athwart each other — ^the eternal harridans 
of commerce. 

The street was a chaos of loveliness. Square-ended, 
like castles built of playing cards, the great, top-heavy 
’buses drew near with even progress, and were gone. 
Beyond the nearer lights were misty blues and black and 
violet masses, and looming roofs atoning with the sky. 
Radiant and lustrous signs vaguely suggested the tower- 
ing houses that supported them. Naphtha flames, swung 
by the wind, illumined stalls of oranges, and gave fierce 
contrasts of high light and deepest shadow upon the 
white faces of men and women who sold and bought. 
The merry ringing of the horses’ bells sprinkled the 
softened air with joyous sound. Life, movement, colour 
— the street was full of them. 

The street was neither beautiful nor ugly, not ro- 
mantic, not dull — just a London street, familiar and 
sufficient. 

For an impalpable moment Henry’s unconscious 
choice hovered between the first description and the 
last, dillydallied, hesitated, and so lost him his oppor- 
tunity. 

And all unaware that any discretion was being exer- 
cised, or sifting or picking taking place, he began to 
glow with a certain joyous excitement. The street was 
entirely beautiful. Aimlessly, leisurely, he walked on. 

Far ahead of him, where shop-land ceased, from out 
the narrow rut of houses, the sky spread up, gently 
flushed by the western glow, waxing from misty lilac 
till it became a mirage of red anemones. And upward 
it ranged through the colours of a thousand flowers — 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


palest rose and palest daffodil — ^to deepest blue. Night 
was tearing down the curtain of the stars. Mid-April 
was approaching: the air was still and sweet, warm 
with the first suggested breath of summer evening. 

Red brick had lost its garishness. High on the walls, 
engoldened by the hidden sunset, stones seemed to crum- 
ble in the shimmering air. Vast buildings rose from 
haze to haze. Windows flashed, and smoke rose up in 
dwindling spirals. 

Henry went slowly. Soon before him the long vista 
sank to meet the sky beneath a hill. And there, where 
the houses verged upon the slope, beyond the lesser and 
the dimmer lights, shone forth a single dazzling emerald 
— a lamp so purely green it was, and so apart. 

He was profoundly happy. Vaguely it seemed to him 
that life had begun again anew. No memory nor con- 
sciousness of usual things dismayed or affected him one 
whit. And this was very strange, because only a few 
minutes ago his mind had been heavy with gloom and 
sullen anger. His emotion had seemed very real, very 
intense. It had been entirely genuine, this sheer abhor- 
rence, so quickly fled, perhaps so soon to come again. 
He had come halfway up the long road with flagging 
steps. But now he walked in rhapsody. He was caught 
up by the mystic sense of warmth and air and eventide. 
Another and a separate existence seemed to open before 
him, to be measured in a new dimension. Customary 
action, conduct, thought, troublesome little dealings with 
a wretched little soul — all fell away. He was inspired 
by a divine madness or a divine sanity. An all-embrac- 
ing love sprang up in him for men, for flowers, for the 
street, for the sky that wrapt them all in tender, darkling 
folds. A little smile was on his lips ; his fingers moved 
in rhythm to the music in his heart. . . . 

8o 


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The dimming of the Southern Cross by tropic moons, 
the heavens aflame with crimson and with gold, palm- 
trees a-swaying in the evening breeze, and mountains 
blue had never touched him so. He was perfectly 
oblivious of the fact that Gerald Faucet came out of 
a dingy little shop, paused, and stared at him. For a 
moment he supposed that Henry was coming to see him ; 
Gerald's house was near by. He waited, delicately lean- 
ing on his cane, and the first and fourth fingers of his 
right hand stuck out, his legs crossed, his hat upon one 
side. But Henry passed him without a sign. Gerald 
smiled. He knew what was happening. 

Presently Henry turned and sauntered back to the 
narrower, teeming way, where life was more profuse 
and noisier, where was shouting and stampeding and 
struggling and toiling. And there the sky was darker 
now, in inkier blues and harder greens; and stars shone 
radiantly. 

The air blew chillier. He looked up at a big clock 
that hung out over the pavement, whose hours were the 
letters of an ironmonger’s name. And he remembered 
what he must do. 

“Jove, but I nearly forgot,” he said to himself. “I 
must go and say goodbye to poor old Minnie. She 
would think me a brute if I didn’t.” 

Then with sudden shame he remembered his disgust 
of half an hour ago. He could not account for it. Not 
to go and see Minnie would be unkind — ^unkind. It did 
not occur to him just then what a very curious point of 
view that was. 

He had not seen Minnie for two or three months. If 
she heard of his marriage — ^which she would — from 
some other source, she would feel that he had been cruel. 
He thought of her sitting alone, as she often did, dis- 

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graced, without the pale. He recalled her thankfulness 
for the companionship of her housekeeper, her fevered 
and pretended eagerness when men, inestimably her in- 
feriors in every way, visited her or took her out to dine. 
And though he did not care for Minnie, he wanted to 
be kind. 


82 


CHAPTER IX 


A nxious but determined, Henry hurried on his 
way through breezes cold and streets without 
romance. No longer were there colours for him on 
either hand : the sky was dull, each house was like an- 
other, a primrose would have been a primrose now, a 
spade a spade. 

He had not written to Minnie to say that he was 
coming. Clandestine correspondence, of however inno- 
cent a nature, would have been repugnant to him. And 
although, hitherto, no explanation of his prolonged ab- 
sence had been forthcoming, Minnie might have mistaken 
his intention in writing to her. It was very much better 
to go there, to take his chance of finding her at home, 
and to have done with it. He could, but fortunately at 
that moment did not, remember the time when he came 
along the same way, excited and with gifts. But there 
was not the smallest thrill in anticipation of seeing Min- 
nie now. He was totally indifferent and would be bored 
beyond the power of, at all events his, expression. The 
thing must be done, however, and then the whole inci- 
dent forgotten as speedily as possible. 

Presently, he turned into the subdued little thorough- 
fare where Minnie lived. Memory livened as he did 
so. There were the lights of a few shops clustered 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


at one end and at the other a grey ni^hility. These shops 
were old and rather dingy, and Henry recalled how 
Minnie laughed at him because on one occasion when 
she asked for some chocolate he had at first refused to 
procure it at the little grocer’s there. He was still an- 
noyed with her laughter. He had been perfectly right. 
You should get chocolate at a respectable place, not at 
a tuppenny half-penny general dealer’s round the corner. 
He frowned. He was anxious to be nice and to close 
an old friendship in as gentle a way as possible, but it 
was very improper of his mind to retain small intimacies 
of a past much better obliterated. 

After the shops came a row of old houses, of which 
Minnie’s was one. They were all very small, each with 
its little strip of garden behind and its little gate before. 
Tall narrow casements, guarded by miniature balconies 
scarce big enough to hold a flower-box, lighted a doll’s 
drawing-room: and underneath a green verandah pro- 
tected a tiny seat outside the dining-room vrindow. 
Blackened ivy, which struggled for a thin existence upon 
the front wall, preserved a countrified appearance more 
genuine than that borrowed from all the trees and shrubs 
which flanked the larger houses in the same road. There 
were not many things left for Minnie to enjoy, so she 
made the most of cosiness and her home. An indolent 
nature and a constant supply of books passed the time 
for her in a comfortable if not particularly exhilarating 
manner. She had two Irish terriers to whom she was 
devoted. 

Henry had just come to the last of the shops and 
was beginning to think of a not too brutal excuse for 
his speedy departure, when a riband of light suddenly 
cut the gloom in front of him, and before it was ex- 
tinguished by the closing of the door, a tall figure had 
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1' H E COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


passed through the little iron gate and had come rapidly 
towards him. 

The advantage of light was with Henry, and he 
stopped abruptly in his surprise. 

“Oliver!” 

Maitland for once in his life was also taken aback, 
though so quickly did he regain his usual composure 
that sharper eyes than Henry’s might well have failed 
to realise its momentary abeyance. 

“Hullo, old man, what are you up to?” and he 
grinned. 

“If you want to know,” said Henry, “Fm going to 
see Minnie. Fd forgotten that you’d — ^met her.” 

“Jealous! Well, I’m damned! Old dog Tray in the 

manger! I thought ” but a second thought seemed 

better and he held the first. 

“I don’t think Minnie expects you,” he went on rather 
coldly. 

“No, I don’t think she does,” said Henry. 

For the moment it had really escaped his memory 
that Oliver knew Minnie ; though, when he came to think 
of it, the three of them had often spent a merry evening 
together in days gone by. The glamour of the past hour 
still illumined his frame of mind, and made him feel a 
cur for ever having allowed Oliver to take for granted 
what he might in reason have been supposed to take for 
granted. “It’s not,” he thought, “as though she were a 
common harlot,” and again caught himself up for the 
singularly detestable sentiment implied. It was very 
absurd, but in a sense Oliver was right, and Henry, 
if he was not jealous, had a distinct feeling of annoyance 
at meeting him on Minnie’s doorstep. There was a 
certain indecency about it somehow. It was like hurry- 
ing round to the bank before your benefactor was cold 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


in his coffin. Besides it was impertinence. Why should 
Oliver presume on a mere acquaintance in the past? 
Guilty conscience! Dirty mind! Why on earth should 
he not? 

'‘Well, I shall have to hurry up,’’ said Henry, “if 
I’m not to interrupt Minnie at dinner,” and he made as 
though to go on. 

Oliver looked at him and away again. 

“I say, Henry, old man,” said he, “I don’t think I 
should.” 

“Should what?” 

“Go and see Minnie just now. You see, she knows 
you’re engaged, and — she’d think it rather cheek of you 
in a way.” 

“Cheek — why ?” 

“Well, it would be rather patronising her. And — 
altogether — she doesn’t want to see you very much now.” 

“Did she say so to you?” 

“Well, old man, if you must know, she did.” 

Henry shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s not for me to go where I’m not wanted,” said 
he, and turned. 

“I really think you’re wise,” said Oliver, in a kind and 
encouraging tone of voice. 

Henry said nothing, and his companion not too ab- 
ruptly changed the subject. So that was satisfactorily 
arranged. Really, Henry was extraordinarily susceptible 
to good management. His hash had been settled with 
scarcely an effort. If Henry had seen Minnie and bid 
her a goodbye — however colourless — she would have 
held him in mind and thought about him regretfully, 
slow to accept the ready consolation of others. As it 
was, Oliver would see to it that she was angry, not 
sentimental. She happened to suit Oliver very well. 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


And besides it was all for Henryks good and the good 
of his wife to be. His action might save future trouble. 
Oliver loved to believe now and again that he was 
doing something of the highest moral good. It made 
him feel versatile. 


87 


CHAPTER X 



HAT other people would have described as the 


▼ ▼ study, morning-room, or library, according to 
their individual sense of importance, Gerald Faucet 
called his sitting-room. It was part of his policy or his 
nature — ^the line between these two in him was exceed- 
ingly hazy — to be simple when you would expect him to 
be elaborate. He said that his house lay off the Edgware 
Road : Henry described it as near Bryanston Square. 

Here, on the day following his encounter in St. John’s 
Wood, Oliver Maitland sat, telling Gerald of his West 
Indian adventures, discussing Henry, and drinking 
whiskey. 

“And the next question is,” said Gerald — “what am 
I going to give Henry for a wedding present? What 
are you?” 

Maitland had not faced the problem yet, but it was 
one of his rules in life always to give definite answers, 
and he was seldom at a loss. 

“Box to keep his cigars in, I thought. He hasn't got 
one.” 

“Which is certainly some excuse. I know where I 
can get him a corner cupboard— a good ’un— better than 
that,” and he pointed across the room. 

“You’re a great hand at that sort of thing,” said 
Maitland. “But I’m glad to see you don’t despise one 
comfortable chair at any rate,” and he lay back on it. 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘Furniture and decoration are meaningless to one un- 
less they conform to domestic needs,” said Gerald. “I 
should dearly love to put aside one room as a kind of 
shrine: you understand — a gem of sheer adornment, 
where meditation would be induced and the mind’s rest 
made sure.” 

“Utterly utter.” 

“Yes. I’ve often thought about it, but this house 
isn’t large enough.” 

“You’ve got such a good nose for old stuff that I 
wonder you don’t make it pay,” said Oliver. “It seems 
waste, somehow.” 

“Does it? Well, I started collecting in the palmy 
days of amazing bargains. You can still do it some- 
times, only there’s a growing fashion which impels peo- 
ple to procure antiquities they don’t understand and 
don’t care about. Nowadays everybody is on the look- 
out for forgeries and simply won’t look at a bit of wood 
that isn’t rotten. Hence it is that all the large dealers 
subscribe to ingenious Monsieur Chose who keeps trained 
worms for dendrophagy.” 

Gerald’s possessions were not the mere toys of a 
moment. Early acquisitions and late, each gave him 
an abiding pleasure. And the whole house was ordered 
with that perfection of which good taste and fussiness 
are the principal ingredients, with comfortable means as 
an important accessory. 

“I wonder how Henry will like being married?” he 
asked. 

“He’s been too quick about it: he ought to have 
waited another five years, then there’d have been some 
sense in it. As it is — well, he’s got what he wants. She’s 
got money and he’s got this old place. Needs. What I 
mean to say is ” 


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'That there’s a certain amount of fairness in the 
bargain? Quite so. Very nice. Sound commerce. By 
all means advertise the marriage service in Exchange 
and Ma/rtf' 

“Great Scott, Gerald, don’t you talk like that. We 
live in the world at the end of the nineteenth century. 
You’ll be quoting Tennyson in a minute.” 

“Or Max Nordau,” Faucet suggested with the desire 
to be contrary. 

“Usually a level-headed person too,” rejoined Oliver. 
“Any way you know as well as I do you don’t swallow 
that sort of stuff.” 

“You take a little too much for granted, Oliver. What 
I swallow and what I don’t swallow is entirely my own 
affair. The thing is simple enough. Surely you can 
follow me when I say I dislike barter in any case, but 
especially when it is confused with anything to do with 
emotion. It seems to me an error of taste, that’s all — 
like boasting of the price you pay for some beautiful 
thing.” 

Maitland laughed aloud. 

“You’ve told me the price of half the things in this 
room,” he said. “Those, for instance,” pointing to a 
couple of oak chairs simply carved with a fish scale 
pattern, which stood on either side of the stone fire- 
place, “those were a guinea the two.” 

“I allow myself to brag of the smallness of cost. But, 
Great Heavens, man, you want me to be consistent. You 
dare to want me to practise what I preach. When will 
you understand that I’m a law unto my bally self? But 
you’re quite right to stand up for Henry” — which Oliver 
never intended to do. “He’s full of generosity and I’m 
certain Dolly will enjoy being married to him very much. 
And Needs will be properly done up and they’ll ask 
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me down, I hope, to advise about the decorations, which 
will be an excuse to stay with them instead of Graham.” 

“Why, what’s wrong with your brother?” 

“A little too exuberant, for me ; a good fellow, an 
admirable host, and all the things popularly supposed 
that an elder brother ought to be. But as a man to go 
and stay with his house is too reminiscent of a taxi- 
dermist’s. Dreadful furry remains of animals nailed 
up everywhere — ^portions of foxes and things. Graham 
and his wife are so proud of them. They put little 
wooden labels underneath to say where the poor things 
died and when. But you’ve torn me away from Aunt 
Sally to mere skittles. I want to throw some more 
cocoanuts. I’m one of those dreadful people, Oliver, 
who brief a counsel of perfection.” 

“Well knowing that he cannot sue for his fees.” 

“Precisely. And wholesale perfection would be as 
tedious as a wholesale linen-draper. But I really am 
anxious that these two should be happy.” 

“Do you mean to tell me, Gerald, that inequality of 
means has anything to do with the happiness of a mar- 
riage? Absurd, totally absurd.” 

“Just so, if the inequality of means is not the prime 
motive for the marriage.” 

“Piffle. It may sound commonplace, but the marriage- 
for-love fiction aggravates me beyond endurance. Sheer 
sentiment.” 

“Sheer science, my dear man. You regard science as 
controlling the uncomfortable frankness of nature. I 
regard it as an explanation. Science tells me that nature 
answers : it tells you how to make the best of a bad 
job.” 

“Well then,” said Maitland, “tell me this. Why is 
it that when a woman has been married for love for 

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some years — sticks to her husband, fond of her children 
and all the rest of it — why is it that she suddenly bolts 
off with a fellow she’s known for three weeks?” 

‘T can’t tell you. I’m not an oracle. Appears to me 
that the love ain’t up to much, and also that the husband 
slights her in some way. It isn’t the man she bolts 
off with that matters, so that the fact she has only 
known him three weeks isn’t anything to be astonished 
at. It’s more likely the cumulative effect of some years 
of annoyance. The time needed to bring things to a 
head probably varies with the woman’s temperament. 
If she’s the very impatient sort she probably won’t wait 
to be slighted twice.” 

“I said that because I’m interested,” said Maitland, 
helping himself largely to whiskey. ‘'Of course, old 
man. I’m under no misapprehension about my personal 
appearance. In fact, I can’t make it out. But a dear 
little soul calmly proposed that we should run off only 
a day or two ago. We were looking at the Venetian pic- 
tures and she suddenly blurted it out. Took my breath.” 

He was so obviously pleased with himself and his two 
rabbit teeth made the centre of so satisfied a smile that 
Gerald could not forbear to laugh. 

“Well?” 

“I’m not talking of Henry’s old flame, you know.” 

Gerald did not know that there was an old flame and 
his face showed his bewilderment. Oliver wisely left the 
point alone. 

“Oh, I told her to think of the children. Wasn’t 
I right — wouldn’t you have done the same?” 

“Possibly. Did her husband beat her or what?” 

“Merely bores her, I think.” 

“Which is infinitely worse. You’re a fine chap, 
Oliver.” 

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Gerald Faucet said that with a straight face, but he 
was surprised beyond all measure at Maitland’s answer. 
That the man could take him at the foot of that — of 
all — letters shed a revealing light on his nature. 

‘‘Oh, no, Fm not, old man,” said he. “One has to 
think of the children, you know. Besides the affair had 
no interest for me.” 

“Magnaminity heaped on virtue. Dear old Oliver !” 

That was a tone which Maitland immediately resented, 
and he showed it. His sense of the ludicrous was fairly 
comprehensive, but it signally failed to involve himself. 
It began to penetrate his intelligence that the means of 
self-glorification so successful with, Henry Wedlaw, for 
example, were scarcely adequate in the harder case of 
Gerald Faucet. He suddenly realised that he had made 
a fool of himself. And instead of snatching an honour- 
able defeat with laughter, he openly sulked and changed 
the subject. 

Far too kind of heart to press advantage, too genuinely 
fond — for all his faults — of Oliver, Faucet laid down 
the snuff box he had been polishing and suggested an 
adjournment for dinner. 

“I told Henry to be here at half-past seven. Graham 
has sent me some whimsical fish which I have no doubt 
he has caught in a very cunning and sportsmanlike man- 
ner. So I thought we’d dine here.” 

“Oh, anywhere for me.” 

Oliver had learned in short but full experience of the 
world what a mistake it is ever to be enthusiastic or 
boyishly delighted by your host’s suggestions. The 
harder he was to please, the harder people tried to please 
him. 

Oliver was now staying with Gerald ; though until he 
had been asked to do so he had not made up his mind 

93 


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whether to stop in England or not. His course of action 
for the immediate future was not yet fully planned, 
and for the past few days he had steadfastly resolved to 
take advantage of the offer he had skilfully extracted 
from Faucet. 

‘‘Stay as long as you like, my dear man,” the latter 
had said. “There’s your room. Take it or leave it or 
fill it with your baggage, as it suits you. It makes no 
difference to me. This is your headquarters to do what 
you like with.” 

Oliver had thanked him without repeating himself, 
but had managed to convey that he was deeply touched. 
The loss of his money in the disaster at Santa Maria, he 
suggested without complaining, hampered his designs. 
And he would use this respite to look about him. He 
might practise at the Bar for a bit, but there was the 
round world to be travelled and it insistently called to 
him. Moreover there was a small financial adventure 
to be arranged, which if it succeeded would change the 
situation entirely. But of that he never spoke. 

Gerald Faucet had never been able to make up his 
mind whether Oliver had any definite ambition. He was 
prone to talk expansively enough of what he had done, 
of money made in various enterprises — ^always disas- 
trously lost not long before their meeting; and in a 
vague way he would submit his schemes for the future, 
always ready to defer to Gerald’s advice. But whether 
he sought to wring fame from law, from politics, from 
both, or again from free-lance diplomatic intrigue, 
Gerald was unable to discover. He inclined to the last 
and most picturesque alternative, because Oliver’s knowl- 
edge of international secrets was so intimate and sur- 
prising, and Gerald loved to swindle his own common 
sense in his endeavour to tear romance from a sordid 
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world. It was so delightful to believe that his own 
friend — ^the man sitting opposite, drinking his whiskey 
— ^was one of the two people in England who knew the 
real history of the United States loan, and who had 
seen the meeting of Lord X. and the King of Z. at the 
rather disreputable restaurant at Bordighera. It made 
Gerald think that he was living in the middle of things, 
almost that he was helping to pull wires. It was like 
being admitted, by favour, to see those parts of Windsor 
Castle not open to the public. And so, being made like 
that, he believed it. 

If Oliver had taken him blindfold down a very long 
passage and on removing the bandage had told him tha'^; 
he was in France, adding, “Ah, you see, it’s not gener- 
ally known that the Channel tunnel has been made,” ft 
is quite conceivable that he would have sought no further 
confirmation. Gerald was no fool. He was credulous 
from deliberate choice; until now in the more extrava- 
gant businesses his gullibility had become second nature. 
Nevertheless in subtler affairs — Oliver’s love stories, for 
example — he kept his head as a man of the world. 

Yes, Oliver was a secretive beggar. You never knew 
quite what he wanted, but it was impossible to deny him 
once he did choose to be explicit. And then he was 
always entertaining, surprising, arresting — ^when you 
got him in the mood. Vain, of course — but that was 
nothing. 


95 


CHAPTER Xr 


TT ENRY arrived late, and it was noticed by the 
^ others that he was rather subdued. Gerald was 
ever observant, whilst a kind of cocktail vivacity inspired 
Oliver Maitland without dimming his perceptions. It 
was characteristic of the latter in certain moods that 
he should stare at Henry, look him down and sum him up, 
as much as to say ‘'What’s the matter with youf' When 
he chose Oliver could perceive quite as unobtrusively as 
Gerald. But he felt antagonistic to Henry just now, and 
deep in his heart — scarcely crystallised into definite 
shape — was the wish to be unpleasant. There was no 
precise feeling of enmity in his mind, but mere annoy- 
ance which, whether he denied it to himself or not, had 
its root in envy. 

No one expected Henry to be exactly boisterous, but 
he was as a rule smiling and agreeable in a quiet way 
when he dined at other people’s houses. He generally 
had some story to tell fairly soon. He was sure to estab- 
lish some point of contact with a stranger. With finan- 
ciers (whom he was certain never to meet at Gerald’s) 
he could discuss that aspect of South America which they 
would have at heart; he would speedily discover that 
one woman had spent some weeks at the same hydro as 
his sister; that another was perfectly mad about azaleas: 
and he would be able to tell her how his mother had cher- 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


ished hers; he would be able to say that he had been 
to the same bootmaker as young Charles Faucet, Ger- 
ald’s cousin (though he had been but once in a fit of 
extravagance) ; he would laugh jovially about noth- 
ing in particular with the social instinct for making 
himself pleasant without using his brains. People must 
have been very tiresome indeed who did not find him 
good company. In fact, however harassed he might 
be by his own affairs, he was always a good guest. 

'‘You must forgive me for being late,” he said to 
Gerald, “but when I tell you that I’ve been shopping 
with Dolly, you’ll understand. These women simply 
cannot grasp the value of time.” 

“How dreadful they would be if they did,” Gerald 
answered. “Are you sure you won’t have a sherry and 
bitters? Come along.” 

Gerald certainly gave too much thought to questions 
of furniture and decoration, Henry thought, and in some 
ways he might be a trifle too unusual : but there was no 
sort of doubt that the result was uncommonly snug. It 
was impossible, even now on the eve of different times, 
to go before his host into his delightful dining-room 
without a feeling of sheer reverence for his money. 
He would walk warily along the polished floor of the 
hall — he had never grown accustomed to parquet; it 
was like a frozen pavement to him — out of the brilliant 
light into a warm glow, on to a carpet which almost 
caressed his ankles. In the dining-room there was a 
mingled fragrance of fruit and other good things, no one 
of which was too pronounced. There was just sufficient 
difference in the temperature on coming from the hall 
to make a pleasing contrast. Enough light was reflected 
from the table to give some inkling of a picture by 
Sickert — tremulous lights and shades in a little music- 

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hall with the face of a terrified girl in the foreground. 
Henry did not look particularly at the picture, but un- 
known to him it played its part with the rest, inducing 
the sensation of cosy splendour. 

And then, on the table, by his plate, was the yellow 
bowl of devilled almonds which Gerald never forgot, 
and which, despite the fact that it spoiled the symmetry 
of the table, was larger than the other bowls. 

Henry cared no more for his stomach than the ma- 
jority of men who have spent some years in hard and 
uncomfortable camps, so his conscious satisfaction now 
was a genuine tribute to Gerald’s mastery of restrained 
delights. 

‘‘What have I done,” said Gerald as they sat down, 
“what have I done to be cut? You cut me dead yester- 
day in the Edgware Road,” and he laughed. 

It was a tactless thing to say, and Gerald knew that 
it was tactless. 

“I didn’t see you,” said Henry casually. 

Oliver made a face at his host who refused to see it. 
Nothing had been said between them about Minnie, of 
whose existence Gerald was probably unaware. But he 
was one of those folk in whom there arises from time 
to time a devil of perversity, making them say things 
for their own sake and deliberately disregarding their 
consequence. Gerald would make fun of his dearest 
friend without the least malice, but merely for the sake 
of the fun. The sound of it was often enough malicious 
to others. 

“You were admiring the sunset,” he said, and, turning 
to Oliver, “He was quite lost, quite rapt. He had a 
seraphic expression. I think he was concocting a son- 
net. Were you, Henry?” 

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‘‘Don’t be an ass,” said the victim, irritably breaking 
toast between his fingers. 

“Must say that sort of thing’s not much in your 
line,” said Oliver, not believing it, but desiring to take 
Gerald’s side. He said it just as though he were depre- 
cating the idea of Henry’s cheating at cards. He im- 
agined that Faucet was pulling Henry’s leg, not being 
aware that the former had any special reason for saying 
what he did. 

The tone of Gerald’s voice changed abruptly when he 
spoke again. Already he regretted his gibe. 

“How anxious you are to be a Philistine, Henry,” he 
said. 

“Let him be a Philistine if he wants to, or anything 
else,” said Oliver, who was not in the least interested, 
but who wished to discuss Armenian affairs, which were 
just then exercising people’s minds. 

“Rubbish,” said Henry. “If you don’t mind my say- 
ing so, you could eat this fillet with a spoon. Did I ever 
tell you about that Christmas dinner we had at Iquique ?” 
and he began to tell a long story. 

“And the best of the whole thing is that it’s true,” 
he added at the end. 

“There — don’t go and spoil it all,” said Gerald. 

He had no anxiety to interpret a usual molehill as 
a marvellous mountain, so he did not tell himself that 
Henry’s was a dual personality. He knew him to be 
complex, merely in the way in which everyone is com- 
plex. Henry was only different from others in that he 
strove against this complexity, tried to deny it to him- 
self, and of one part of it was ashamed. Gerald thought 
of Henry as a man spoilt by customary education. Ger- 
ald regarded education as the training of the brain at 
the expense of the soul, of instinct and of temperament. 

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To him it was a uniform — that which, once donned, 
obliterated self, strangled the God in man, and the 
sense of mystery in life, which is religion, man’s peculiar 
inheritance. Education silenced the voice of conscience, 
and substituted a self-consciousness, which to the un- 
enlightened was the same thing, only better. Education, 
as Gerald saw it, made virtues vices, and taught the mind 
to despise the heart. 

Henry Wedlaw had determined to be like other peo- 
ple because it was more comfortable to conform; and 
that of all things was a target at which Gerald loved to 
shy a cocoanut, as he would say. But there was always 
the potential Henry, shrivelled for want of nourishment, 
a merry madman all in love with life, a mystic with queer 
certainty of the world’s magic, a seer of unknown 
loveliness. 

Of course it pleased Gerald to imagine all sorts of 
strange and beautiful things about the temperament of a 
man he liked: but in this case he thought that he had 
reason and common sense upon his side. His experience 
of Henry in the past had told him curious things. Once 
he had surprised him looking wistfully at a pencil draw- 
ing in his own sitting-room. In the country, at his 
brother Graham’s, he had noticed now and again his 
companion’s sudden silence in the face of beauty. And 
though the next minute would be pregnant with contra- 
diction — ^some reference to wine or women, some dead- 
ening fact of sport or husbandry — ^the price of crops, 
the merits of manure — yet was he certain that these were 
the bastards of his friend’s intelligence, the spurious out- 
growth of a baleful shame. 

Until lately, he had wondered, with increasing des- 
pondency, which of the two Henrys — the authentic or 
the make-believe — would gain the mastery. His indomi- 
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table money-greed had seemed infallibly to point the 
way. But now this was satisfied. Henry would be a 
changed man. Gerald felt that it would not have been 
for nothing that he had put up with him for so long. 

It was a very charming picture of the new Henry that 
he conjured for himself, and in anticipation he beamed 
across the table. His two guests were now arguing the 
comparative abominations of malarial fever from the 
stores of their respective experience. 

‘‘Well,” said Gerald, “about this Philistinism ” 

“Oh, Philistines be damned,” Oliver replied. “But 
that reminds me of a yarn I heard on the Jane Ander- 
son. The skipper told us — old Piper. I shall never 
forget Sir Thomas's face. When David — ^ — ” 

But on Gerald at least the yam was lost. For a recent 
conversation with Henry came to him in a sudden blaze 
of memory. Sir Thomas Wren, the Governor, had ar- 
rived at Port Kingston on board the Jane Anderson after 
the earthquake at Santa Maria. Indeed the calamity had 
taken place almost before the ship had sunk below the 
horizon. Sir Thomas had a providential escape. He 
would have been in his office for certain, certainly killed. 

And so Oliver had invented his hairbreadth escape. 
The first he could have heard of the earthquake must have 
been in Jamaica a couple of days later. He was getting 
clumsy. So much for the wish to tell a ribald story. 

Gerald looked at Henry. He was chuckling quite hap- 
pily. He had never noticed the slip. No more did Oliver. 
That tale had put him in mind of another. And Gerald 
was not the man to gasp at a sudden revelation. The 
next moment he saw Henry lift his glass and look luxu- 
riously at the colour of the wine. Claret looked wonder- 
ful in those so faintly tinted goblets. But Gerald could 
not have done that. There was no further pleasure in the 

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meal for him. If Oliver chose to tell a good lie now and 
again, well and good. It was amusing. It did no harm. 
But Oliver had worked upon his sympathies, had implied 
courageous actions at a time of catastrophe, and had 
even definitely complained of personal loss. That was 
not what Gerald had expected. For the rest of the eve- 
ning he let the others do most of the talking. 


102 


CHAPTER XII 


D raped with Honiton lace worn by her mother on 
her wedding day . . . carried a bouquet of white 
roses presented by the bridegroom ... Mr. Oliver Mait- 
land acted as best man . . . the bride travelled in a cos- 
tume of fawn crepon, with blouse bodice of shot terra- 
cotta silk, trimmed with cream-coloured lace, and revers 
of pale blue moire, and a brown straw hat, ornamented 
with cream lace and wallflowers. Among those who 
signed the marriage register was the Countess of . . .’’ 

The recent memory of it came to Henry in snatches. 
That had been a respectable ladies’ paper, and Dolly had 
made him read the cuttings that had been sent to them 
from home. They had laughed over them together. The 
local argus had two columns and called it a Wedding in 
High Life; also it made the Countess go much further 
and fare worse. 

. . the wedding cake was provided by Messrs. 
Ulney & Wells” — a touch of originality insisted upon by 
Dolly, who had bought sticky sweets at the obscure little 
pastry-cooks’ when she was a child and had a sentimental 
regard for them. 

Well, that was over and done with, thank the Lord! 
The ceremony had been conducted smoothly, customarily, 
without hitch. The solemnization of matrimony for 
Dolly and Henry had been thoroughly in accordance with 

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all preconceived ideas. You had to endure the fuss, the 
gaping of strangers, the tears of aunts, the self-conscious 
idiocy of yourself, but so long as it went off all right noth- 
ing else mattered. And when all was said and done you 
must have the function and the fuss. You could not be 
decently married without it. It was a great bore, but you 
had to go through with it. Things must always be done 
properly — ^that is to say, as other people did them, else 
you might just as well go and live native on the banks of 
the Niger at once. 

A straggling beam of sunlight had struck for a moment 
upon the bride through clerestory windows. ‘^And that,’’ 
said Gerald afterwards, ‘'will be two guineas extra.” 

Certainly Johnny Attewell, Henry’s nephew, who had 
been a page in white satin and lace, was too young for 
the responsibility of his position, and had been forced 
to retire into private life somewhat early in the proceed- 
ings. But so long as he was upon the scene he had 
played the part of eighteenth century Cupid with a nice 
reserve. 

It had all been slightly exasperating, and the sooner 
the absurd honeymoon was over and they could settle 
down comfortably at Needs the better. In the event the 
honeymoon, however absurd, had been exceedingly good 
fun. It was a pity that the time of year had precluded 
a little shooting, but there would be plenty of that later on 
at home, and when all was said and done, Dolly was an 
exceedingly good sort. Henry put this to himself in so 
many words. “And she’s a lady, and in spite of all this 
modern affectation, she’s a good woman. There’s nothing 
like a good woman. She’ll be a good mother too.” Yes, 
it was comfortable to know that there was a serious side 
to Dolly, a deep vein of sound sense, and probably, some- 
where out of sight, a religious feeling. For Henry knew, 
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or rather had accepted the doctrine, that, however re- 
gardless he and other men might be of Heaven and Hell 
and God and the Church militant here on earth, religion 
was necessary to women. They were made like that. It 
was proper that Dolly should, without being pious, go to 
church and say her prayers. Of course, there was noth- 
ing of that sort about him. But there was always a 
pleasant feeling that it was there, waiting for the moment 
of necessity. And he could not stand blasphemy. He 
had always sat on people who made blasphemous jests. 
So that really and truly he was taking his part and doing 
his share on the side of the angels. No more could be 
expected of a sensible man. 

Now, at last, they had settled in. The house had been 
put to rights. There stretched before him into the vague 
distance of time, the task of redeeming the place, culti- 
vating the garden, developing the shooting, improving 
the pasture. 

Things were altogether more comfortable, more sedate 
than they used to be. To take one instance : for the first 
time in his whole life Henry was evenly apparelled. Even 
as a new born babe his elder brother’s garments had been 
palmed off upon him. When Michael went to school, 
Henry wore out his sailor suits. “Bethnal Green? No, 
certainly not. They’ll do for Henry.” After Henry — ■ 
then would come the deluge of little knickerbockers, and 
Norfolk jackets for East London. 

What he wore now was good throughout, though ex- 
ternally he was free from the reproach of immaculate 
glossiness. He knew that his tail coat of grey tweed and 
his breeches and leggings fitted him. He invariably wore 
a stiff white shirt. He was pleased to see that the cuffs 
appeared but not too widely. He no longer had to think 
twice about some little trip up to London which was not, 

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perhaps, vitally necessary. Already he had found excuses 
to go there. London was altogether different now that he 
could put up at a comfortable, quiet hotel; and the 
atmosphere of Barry's was most refreshing. He had run 
across one or two old friends and had been able to give 
them some dinner. He liked to think that he was able to 
pay off scores five, seven and ten years old. It was quite 
impossible for him to eat another man’s bread and be 
thankful. He never rested until he had repaid the loaf — 
with salt as interest. Hospitality for Henry was always 
encumbered by a mental balance-sheet. 

Probably one of the things that 'most emphasised the 
change, though he would hardly appreciate it, was his 
entry at tea time, into the drawing-room filled with sun- 
shine and fragrance. Dolly would pour from a silver 
tea-pot into the big cup, which was his especially — Dolly 
deliciously dressed, with shining hair. The whole effect 
was something not only to be pleased with, but to be 
proud of. If people called they could not fail to be struck 
by her appearance and setting. Dolly might be a little 
“arty,” in fashion with the times, but she did not allow 
such uncouth sentiments to spoil her clothes. After 
dinner, too, she would play to him, and the sight of her 
there in the candle-light, with her glorious neck and 
shoulders bare, stirred him as he lay back upon the sofa, 
his hands behind his head, in cool contact with the chintz. 
It all fitted in with what he reckoned to be right and pro- 
per and correct. There was no dinginess to hide. If 
anyone entered the house at any time, however unex- 
pected, however unusual the hour, there was never any 
occasion to scuttle away or grab something and put it 
in a corner, or to seek by diplomacy to keep people in a 
particular room because he was ashamed of the others. 
He had been accustomed to that kind of thing in days 
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gone by : he had noticed it too at his sister Evelyn’s. Oh, 
no: they had no second-rate habits at Needs. 

Of course Dolly had a certain irritating gift of candour 
and a lack of shame. She had no desire to see things 
correct for correctness’ sake. She wanted everything 
about her to be thoroughly nice and the fact that her 
sense of niceness was more or less orthodox was a for- 
tunate chance for Henry. 

Money was hardly ever mentioned. At their marriage, 
Dolly had wished to put everything into her husband’s 
hands. Henry had scouted the notion when it was first 
suggested. And — which was much more pertinent — so 
had Dolly’s family. There had been a deal of buzzing 
and fluttering at so mad a generosity. Lawyers had 
wagged solemn fingers. After all, they had pointed out, 
she could do what she liked in reason. Henry should 
have the spending of the quite considerable interest if 
she really wished him to. 

‘‘You may think me a very worldly old woman” (or old 
man, as the case might be — the preamble was invariably 
the same) “but now and five years’ time are quite dif- 
ferent. No — no — no — I’m not saying for a moment that 
you will love your husband any less. Indeed more — ' 
much more. By then he will be the father of your chil- 
dren (if God wills). But at the same time, dear, this is 
the wisest course. What you have is yours, and it ought 
to remain yours. You see that, dear, don’t you?” 

This had been repeated with little variation again and 
again. “I should never dream of allowing such a thing,” 
said Henry, after the whole affair had been permanently 
closed. 

No. Dolly’s money was never talked of. Henry 
merely spent it. And the result was quite delightful for 
both of them. 


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To-night Henry had just come home from Stewdon, 
where he had been negotiating the purchase of a Guern- 
sey cow. It was nice to do something for himself oc- 
casionally. He liked to feel that he was a real farmer: 
though to be on the safe side he had re-engaged Hay- 
wood, the bailiff whom his mother had been too poor to 
keep. And that left him free. He need not always be 
upon the spot. If he chose to go to the world’s end for 
six months, he could do so in the certain knowledge that 
the place would be looked after. 

He had timed himself to be home in comfortable time 
to dress for dinner, but he had discovered a short cut 
across the fields and found himself now with ten minutes 
to spare at the border of his own domain. He leaned on 
the gate which gave upon his own orchard and gazed at 
the land about him. The spud that he carried dangled 
gently to and fro from his interlaced fingers. 

It had been very hot and still. He had walked far in 
heavy boots. It was nice to rest for a minute and watch 
things. Just the least hint of an evening breeze was 
coming to stir the trees and to refresh him. Presently he 
would saunter up through the orchard and the lower 
garden. He looked forward to a cool bath before dinner. 
Dolly would tell him about the chickens ; and the brown 
eggs that made breakfast a thing to look forward to. 
Some more runs were wanted, and a good deal of wire 
netting, and to-morrow he would be going into Utchester 
where he would see about these and a couple more spades 
that were said to be necessary. That sort of thing could 
be got very well locally. Anything more complicated — ■ 
a mowing machine for the lawn, or stable fittings — must, 
like Gruyere cheese, or hats, or note-paper, come from 
London. 

Dolly had been making a pencil drawing of the front 
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of the house. No doubt she would show it to him after 
dinner. He hoped very much that she had taken the tip 
he had given from the stores of his engineering knowl- 
edge. Henry disliked drawings which savoured of im- 
pression, a picture of a house in his estimation should be 
of practical service to a clerk of works. 

... It was Graham Faucet’s land that Henry was 
looking at now. Graham marched with him on this, the 
south, side of Needs. One grey corner of Clenham Hall 
was just discernible amidst beech trees far away on his 
left front. Graham, reflected Henry, had the pick of the 
soil hereabouts; fertility came to an abrupt end on Gra- 
ham’s side of the boundary. Nothing could be done with 
Needs. It was worthless. It was his. Of course, it had 
been neglected for years: but it was worthless all the 
same. No effort would redeem it, so why waste the ef- 
fort? It was good fun, in a way, to have a place — even 
an absurd scrap like Needs — for one’s own: but it was 
rather a waste of good money. You only had to look 
at Graham’s land and it would bear fruit. ‘Tt’s like 
some women and all rabbits,” Gerald had said. Lucky 
Graham! Me miser um! 

Nevertheless, envy of his neighbour did not trouble 
Henry much at this moment. A long day of physical 
exertion, a full and profitable day, left little room for 
discontent. All the morning he had superintended the 
thinning of trees, afterwards he had played tennis with 
Dolly, whose game was already improving a little. After 
that there had been several small jobs which included the 
questioned enlargements of pigsty es and the writing of 
letters, and finally the long hot tramp to Stewdon. In 
other words, Henry was pleasantly tired and wanted 
his dinner. 

Before the gate on which he leaned there was a big, 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


sloping field. On the upper side, which was on the left, 
it was bounded by bare earthy banks, riddled with rabbit 
holes and topped with sunlit hazel and with trees. Hence 
the long grass slope slid away into the shadow thrown by 
a little copse which belonged to Henry and into which his 
orchard merged. Here the intense red of Scotch firs 
caught the light and glinted from amongst varieties of 
green. There were cows grazing in the higher part of the 
field, and one stood half in, half out of shadow so that 
she looked half red, half purple. Distance in the south 
not steeped in slanting sunlight, stood harder in relief 
with fields of yellow. Beyond that came rolling lands 
of blue and violet, with clouds above it tipped with pink 
like a range of mighty mountains infinitely remote. In 
the east there was a clear sky, palest blue and rose pink, 
smiling to a far horizon. Over Needs itself were clouds 
of sun-kissed white, with long flakes streaking away in 
parallel curves, like the tail feathers of a bird of para- 
dise. 

There were the sounds of cattle lowing, and of sheep. 
Far away a machine was cutting corn, and somewhere — 
less far — a gun banged thrice in slow succession. There 
were wheels and horse’s hoofs upon the road down the 
valley, and a dog was barking there. Very near by the 
birds were twittering, and the steady munch of a horse 
came from just beyond the angle of the hedge. Through 
a gap opposite Henry could see gorse in bloom, and 
heather, and beneath his feet were queer little purple and 
yellow flowers. There was the scent of these wild flow- 
ers and the smell of earth. 

Quite suddenly he became very excited. No longer did 
his spud swing from his fingers. He held it tense and 
rigid. He had an almost overwhelming desire to creep 
into the hedge and to lie amongst the ferns and soft 
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earth, and wait and wait and watch. . . . For it was 
so very still now. The dog barked no longer: the cart 
had ceased to rumble. There were only the birds and the 
sighing flight of little insects. To lie on the earth would 
be very cool and comfortable. He could dig his fingers 
into the moss. And he could stare into the heart of the 
hedgerow and into the nearer shadows. Something — 
something quite uncon jecturable — would almost be bound 
to happen. 

— Happen ? What could happen ? Henry pulled him- 
self together. He had very nearly given in to ridicu- 
lous impulse, like some half-idiot boy. How curiously 
prone he was to be upset by a time of day or a particular 
scene. It was unwholesome. It was right and natural 
to enjoy the beauty of the country-side. Nobody could 
quarrel with that. But there was something more now, 
or had been, before he woke himself up. There had been 
a desire to give in — give in — what to? . . . just to give 
in, and lie, and watch and wait. What for? Watch and 
wait and be divinely happy all the time, to touch the 
pinnacle of unimagined joy — in the scent of the earth 
and the failing light . . . 

‘‘Bath, and then dinner,’’ said Henry to himself. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XIII 


T LOVE the country, said Dolly, “and I love Needs. 

I love my garden, and I love the beasts, and you’re 
not bad ” 

“Being one of them.” 

“Being one of them. Listen. I think it’s all very nice 
indeed. But I think it all wants waking up. Darling, 
would you mind very much if we had some people down 
for a few days?” 

She had come into the morning-room where Henry 
was supposed to be writing letters and therefore not to 
be disturbed. But passing the window a few minutes 
previously she had seen his pipe jutting out from behind 
the Morning Post, and determined to seize the oppor- 
tunity. For some days past Dolly had felt vaguely that 
she wanted something. Now she knew what it was. She 
determined to act at once. 

“Of course,” said Henry, pleased that she should defer 
to him, and not immediately perceiving what such defer- 
ence implied. “Of course, whom are you going to ask? 
I wish old Oliver was get-at-able.” 

“We shall have him soon enough. I’ve no doubt. Well, 
I thought Bella Keene,” and she paused. 

“By all means. Sensible woman that. LFgly as sin. 
By the way, I never thought of it before — is she anything 
to do with Herbert Keene who used to hunt the Mid- 
Notts? He was worth a lot of money.” 

II2 


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“You did think of it before, dear. No: no relation. 
I’m sorry, but she’s not one of the Keenes.” 

By a great effort Dolly forbore to say any more. It 
was the third time that Henry had asked a similar ques- 
tion about one or another of her friends in as many 
days. 

“And then I thought of Kalogrides and Tom Sail.” 
“What!” 

“But he’s a perfect little dear. Why, I thought you 
liked him when we met him at the Halls’.” 

“Oh, the dago — I’m not talking about him. You can 
fill up the whole place with foreigners for me. But I’m 
not going to have Sail in the house, so don’t think it.” 

“But, Henry, why on earth not ? You don’t even know 
him.” 

“No, thank the Lord, I don’t; and I don’t mean to. 
Look here, Dolly. I’ve not been about a great deal. I’m 
fully aware. I’m a wild backwoodsman and all that, I 
know. But one can’t be such an out and out idiot as not 
to know all about Sail. I’m not going to have that sort 
here. No — ^seriously — it won’t do at all. About the 
most unsavoury reputation in London. No, thank you.” 

“Reputation! My dear, if you judge everybody by 

their reputation ■” She lifted her shoulders with 

indignation. “Besides, what have his morals to do with 
us? He may be a bit of a rip. You’re no plaster saint, 
old boy.” 

“No,” said Henry. “But I’ll trouble you not to com- 
pare me with a person of that stamp. You don’t know 
what you’re talking about, or you’d say no more about it. 
I don’t propose to discuss the question any further. I 
tell you the man has a reputation which will keep him out 
. of my house.” 

“But, my dear — oh, well, I suppose it’s no good talk- 

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ing. But I expect even I have got a reputation, as you 
call it, if it comes to that. It’s impossible not to have one 
if you’re anything at all. It’s the most invariable sign 
of mediocrity not to have a bad reputation amongst some 
people.” 

‘T’m not going to argue about it,” said Henry, as he 
lifted his paper again and lowered his eyes to it. ‘^Sail 
is a man no decent woman ought to be seen speaking 
to.” 

“But it wouldn’t matter, of course, if she wasn’t seen. 
I quite understand. But how tremendously interesting. 
I’d no idea, you know.” 

Dolly went away quickly, as she felt her temper rising. 
But thenceforth Tom Sail was pigeon-holed in her mind, 
not only as an amusing companion and quite the most 
likely of the minor poets, but invested with the inestim- 
able glamour of sin. She was angry and hurt. And what 
did morals matter — ^that is, so long as you observed your 
own? She wondered if Sail took morphia. The abstract 
idea of vice was perfectly enthralling. Was she not, 
devotedly, one of the tiresome people? Vice, subtle vice, 
was much talked of amongst the tiresome. Roughly 
speaking, it was associated in her mind with languor in 
silk dressing-gowns, with incense in strangely decorated 
rooms — with a hundred and one forms of sound commer- 
cial advertising. She was indistinctly aware that Tom 
Sail was talked of as a bad young man, which, coupled 
with his poetry, made him a person desirable to know. 

But, going to her store-room, as she presently did, 
gloomily to regard the pots of bought jam, which she 
hoped to supplant next year with that of her own making, 
and sauntering thence to the garden door for the never 
stale delight of plucking roses, she became aware that 
Tom Sail was not worth quarrelling about. It was irri- 
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tating of Henry to take that view : but he was a man of 
the world, and perhaps he really did know better than 
she what he was talking about. For a moment a sudden 
qualm got the better of her. Tom Sail might possibly 
be quite a horrible person. In that case, would she not 
have known it intuitively? But anyhow roses and jam 
and Henry were far more befitting a summer’s day. She 
made her way round the house to the morning-room win- 
dow and sat down on the sill. Henry did not look up. 
He was writing letters. 

‘'Aren’t you a funny old chap?” she said. 

“Don’t interrupt now, I’m writing a business letter.” 

“But aren’t you?” 

“I — there! I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. 
Dolly, you must not interrupt me like this. You knew 
I was busy. What is it?” 

That spoilt it all. She had intended to climb through 
the window, to make love to him, to show him that, after 
all, he left no room in her mind for arguments about 
dubious poets. 

“Oh, all right, dear. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll 
go away.” 

“Well, what is it? You have disturbed me now. I 
wish you wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” and disentangling a strand of hair 
from a rose leaf that obtruded before the low window, 
she moved slowly away. 

The next day, without referring to Sail or Kalogrides, 
they decided to have Bella Keene and Oliver Maitland, 
who had been abroad and hitherto unable to avail himself 
of the standing invitation. He had written that very day 
to announce his return. And though this was a very 
comfortable arrangement and, when all was said and 
done, quite as satisfactory in anticipation as a visit from 

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the suave little Greek and the unmentionable poet, the 
dangerous ground had never been cleared. 

Dolly felt that Henry was making no effort to know 
her and understand her. Of course, he was perfectly 
transparent, there were no subtleties of temperament 
about dear Henry. She said to herself that she could 
read him like a book : and, she decided, it was a reading 
without tears. The only thing to do was to set to work 
and dig into his sense of propriety, expose it, and let the 
air get at it. But she devoutly wished that he would not 
take so much of her for granted. The hateful thought 
came to her that Henry was not regarding her seriously. 
'T am not a harem,” she had once said to him, “and I am 
not going to be treated like one.” But that, in effect, 
was really how he was treating her. Evidently he looked 
upon her as a child, some one to be sheltered and pro- 
tected, not some one to whom he could give reasons for 
a particular line of conduct. If he said that It was so, It 
was : there was to be no argument about it. Even in the 
more common-place relations of daily life she felt some- 
times that her wishes, or more strictly speaking, the pos- 
sibility of her wishes, were not consulted. It had not 
occurred to Henry the last time he went up to London 
that she would like to come too. He took it as a matter 
of course that she was quite content with her garden. 
She had not suggested coming for this very reason. He 
had said : “Em going to run up next week for a night 
or two.” She was child enough to be piqued and feel 
she wasn't wanted. Since then, thinking of it soberly, 
she came to the conclusion that she ought to have sug- 
gested her coming, at the same time throwing out a hint 
that Needs, though delightful, could not supply all the 
degrees of normal enjoyment that her nature craved. 

With regard to the terrible Tom Sail, he had merely 

Ii6 


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stimulated her curiosity without giving any explanation. 
Why was Tom Sail so unspeakably bad as not to be ad- 
mitted to the house? If he really was a totally unde- 
sirable person, she was quite willing to let the matter drop 
and fall in with Henry’s wishes. She held no brief for 
the man. He was just amusing and his verses were ex- 
citing and musical, and certainly he was picturesque to 
look at. But what had he done ? She felt that as Henry’s 
wife she had the right to share this apparently special 
knowledge. If he was in the habit of running after other 
people’s wives, or was addicted to one or another repre- 
hensible form of conduct she ought to know about it. 
Henry ought to tell her plainly and then the subject 
could be safely closed. But that was Henry all over. He 
would think it indelicate to discuss things of that sort. 
He was silent with her in just the same way as a father 
or uncle might be expected to be silent. There were 
numerous points for which her enquiring mind desired 
a solution. If, as she often did, she asked him an inti- 
mate question, he would either laugh and obtrusively 
change the subject, or else would appear visibly shocked. 
“My dear child, you really musn’t ask me things like 
that,’^ he would say. It was very disappointing. Her 
instinct told her that between husband and wife there 
should be no locked doors. The perfection of married 
happiness for her was only to be attained by means of 
absolute frankness. 

Henry was treating her like the governess she had as 
a small child. There was a French lesson which Dolly 
had never been able to forget. There were little exercises 
in a little red book, and after each a miniature vocabu- 
lary, which she must know by heart. Un chien — she re- 
membered the exact place on the page and she could see 
it now — Un chien — a dog. Une chienne — and, before she 

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could read the English word, Miss Adams hastily grabbed 
at the shiny yellow box in which she kept her draw- 
ing pencils, seized a B, and heavily blacked out the word. 
'‘That — that’s a mistake,” said Miss Adams. “In Eng- 
lish we talk of a dog — just a dog, whether it is masculine 
or feminine.” Dolly had subsequently enquired about 
this palpably mysterious conduct. “Miss Adams was per- 
fectly right,” her father had said. But the mystery 
clung to her imagination. She tried to decipher the ob- 
literated print and failed. It was characteristic that she 
did not go to the length of trying indiarubber. That 
would have been too definite. It was the difference be- 
tween not “being able to help” seeing some one else’s 
letter and steaming the envelope : though Dolly had never 
fallen to curiosity about other people’s affairs. Une 
chienne, however, concerned herself intimately. It was 
part of her French lesson. And lesson books had no 
right to make mistakes. 

And that old story was being repeated now. Henry 
was always obliterating the bitch. 

No doubt, however, it was only a question of time. 
Perhaps Henry was rather shy. She had always sup- 
posed, judging from conversations with her mother or 
her friends, that it was a young wife’s part to be shy. 
“Miserable milk-and-water misses,” she had said to her- 
self. She was of far too eager, too natural a disposition 
to be shy. There were things to face, she had been told, 
and that in itself angered her to the point of fury. The 
need to face implied a reason to fear ! Bah ! That was 
a cringing to civilisation. Women with any nobility in 
their composition had no occasion to think of fear. They 
took their man and they bore him children. What absurd 
creatures men must be, judging by Henry. If ever in a 
halting way he had talked of “things” he had tried to 
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break it gently. Dolly clenched her hands and stretched 
out her arms in the sunshine. Ah, to be a savage, to be 
free of these finicky conventions which blurred the soul 
and bred insipid minds and faint hearts. It couldn’t be 
blood which flowed in people’s veins, but glycerine — ^yes, 
glycerine, watery, sticky, sweet, soothing glycerine. 

But there were other things to think about, and Dolly 
was not for long preoccupied with the facts of nature. 
She must play at being Martha for a time, and the novelty 
of it had not yet worn thin. Bella would be here soon ; 
and she wanted the garden, such as it was, to be at its 
best. Bella was a terrible dragon in a garden. ‘What 
do you want this rubbish here for?” she would say. 
“Pull it up, pull it right up and pitch it on the dust heap. 
Here, give me a trowel.” And she would turn up her 
skirts to her knees and dig and destroy with wrathful 
energy. So for some days Dolly devoted herself to the 
roses, and to the tactful management of Robinson, the 
gardener. 

Needs was a red brick house, much smaller than it 
appeared from outside. Originally it had formed part 
of the Clenham estate and had been built in the last year 
of James the Second’s reign. It had been added to twice, 
firstly at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and 
then again at the time of Henry’s marriage. The only 
characteristic part was the narrow front with gable ends 
framed with yellowing stone and small square window 
panes. 

The warmth of the variegated colouring of old bricks 
conveyed an impression of peace and happy days. Long 
years of sunshine seemed to be imprisoned there. 

The house stood within a stone’s throw of the main 
road between Clenham and Utchester, screened from 
view by a high holly hedge. The main part of the garden 

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lay on the far side of the house, where an old cedar 
spread its horizontal lines of rich indigo, beneath which 
the grass thinned about a circular line and ended in spike- 
strewn earth. To the left the orchard sloped down the 
hill-side. From the stables up above the house there was 
a narrow lane which led into the deep valley beyond. 
This divided Henry’s land, no more than one field deep 
on either side, rough pasture on the high ground and 
arable where the little property bent itself steeply down 
to the vale. 

Within the house itself there was a long hall, with a 
heavily built oak staircase, a wide window seat, a tim- 
bered ceiling. Two or three good pieces of furniture had 
always been there — a high solid cupboard of oak, whitish 
grey in colour, with big, round feet, its panels relieved 
with little lozenges of ebony. The drawing-room, judged 
by much earlier and rather later standards, ran a risk 
of being “pretty.” There were too many small things 
in it, little worthless chairs, a superfluity of ornaments, 
most of them good in their way but tending by their very 
numbers too drastically to break up the lines of a well- 
proportioned room. The dining-room, with its white 
panelling, was furnished with as good and as early an 
imitation of Sheraton as comparatively humble folk had 
a right to expect. And then the morning-room, which 
Henry used as a study, was tidy and comfortable. He 
kept his guns there. There were a good many scientific 
books, and piled in one corner were leather cases which 
held his surveying and other instruments. A glass- 
fronted cabinet, full of tools, stood on one side of the 
fireplace. There were many faded and dreary-looking 
photographs of bridges and mine-heads in South Amer- 
ica. On the mantelshelf, in a leather frame, was a picture 
of Oliver Maitland with his high collar and his rabbit 
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teeth much in evidence. On the opposite wall was one 
of Henry’s most treasured possessions — a sketch of his 
father with one hand upon the woolly head of a retriever 
— by Landseer. The dog was very like a dog, but Dolly 
irreverently suggested that the father was like the front 
elevation of a locomotive and that he was wearing an 
odd pair of leggings. 

It was remarkable that there was not a single Spanish 
book to be seen. Henry was well acquainted with the 
tongue, and had spent some years in countries where, in 
a more or less bastard degree, it is spoken. But he had 
wished to keep himself perfectly English. 

Upstairs there were many odd little rooms, which were 
approached by steps, here three up and there a couple 
down. One of these Dolly used as her own sitting-room. 

In the afternoons, as a rule, she rode with Henry; in 
the evening, she played Sullivan’s operas, which he liked. 
And while she played, now and again her eyes would 
turn away from the music to him in sheer delight. Henry 
always looked so fresh and alert in evening clothes: he 
was SO beautifully made, muscular without being lumpy, 
compact and yet not thickly built: his collar set so per- 
fectly about his neck : his hair was so crisp and tidy, well 
brushed without a drop of scented unguent to smear it 
into place. The colour of his skin was so clear, sun- 
burnt and pink, shaved to perfection. And his eyes when 
they were sleepy . . . and his teeth when he laughed 
. . . and she would hurry up and finish the air and come 
over to him and bend down and kiss him. She forgot 
all about being treated like a harem. 

One evening a packing case arrived from the station, 
containing a new hanging lamp which they had ordered 
for the hall. Dolly and Henry happened to be in front 
of the house when the luggage cart lumbered up the 

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drive and turned away behind the rhododendrons to- 
wards the back entrance. 

‘‘That’s the lamp,” said Henry. “I think I’ll see to it 
myself. You know what servants are. They’ll smash it, 
getting it out.” 

So he set off towards the stables and Dolly went with 
him. Presently, with exaggerated care under the fidget- 
ing eyes of his master, the boy who had driven the cart 
lifted the case and put it down upon the floor of the car- 
penter’s shop, which adjoined the stables. Dolly stood 
and watched while Henry thrust in a cold chisel beneath 
the lid and levered one end of it up. He was in a hurry 
to see if the lamp had travelled safely, and so did not 
lose time, as he would have otherwise, to save nails. He 
put his fingers beneath the loosened end and wrenched 
the lid off. The boards had been well put on, and he had 
to exert himself, the nails screaming as they were torn 
away. To Dolly there was something hugely satisfying 
about this performance. Henry had taken off his coat 
and with his knee upon a corner of the box and his leg 
thrust out to steady himself, he seemed to her posed 
for a statue of ordered strength. How finely his back 
was arched, and how the veins stood out upon his strong 
brown hands ! She could see the muscle of his leg slide 
beneath his stocking as he leaned back, and as he stood 
upright again his face reddened with effort. In her mind 
Dolly thought of him as some beautiful pagan god. 

The next morning Henry was splashing in his tub. 
The sunlight streamed through the bathroom window. 
Already it was beginning to be hot, and with sheer physi- 
cal delight he crushed the big sponge over his head. Then 
with his hands on either side of the bath he drew him- 
self forward till he was doubled up, and plunged back 
again, enjoying the shock of cold water as it swept the 
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back of his head and eddied on either side over his 
shoulders. He repeated this process, this time submerg- 
ing his head and feeling the water break up the lather 
of soap about his ears. So he did not hear the opening of 
the door which he had left unlocked and was not aware 
of what had happened until the head of Dolly appeared. 

''Don’t come in,” he called. "I’m in my bath. 
Don’t ” 

But Dolly did come in and stood there by the door, 
laughing, with the sun shining in her hair, Dolly in a 
blue dressing-gown, with an ivory brush in one hand. 

"But I wanted to see you in your bath. You’d be 
such a dear,” she said. 

"For Heaven’s sake get out and shut the door,” and 
Henry laughed uneasily. As Dolly looked at him she 
saw that he had blushed crimson. 

In consternation and utter surprise, she backed out 
hurriedly : but in another she had put her head back for 
a moment. 

"And you are a darling, in your bath,” said she, and 
fled. 

Really, thought Henry, that was too much. He rose 
and began to dry himself, already hot with shame. It 
wasn’t — it wasn’t decent. The girl must be mad. Of 
course, he could never speak about it. It was better 
ignored. A terrible realisation trembled on the brink 
of his mind that such an action was not quite ladylike. 
He knew that some of Dolly’s forebears were not, so- 
cially, all that might have been expected. That was the 
sort of thing a common woman might do. She couldn’t 
have realised. No, that was it: she couldn’t possibly 
have realised. After that he rather dreaded coming 
down to breakfast. 

When he did get downstairs, she surprised him from 

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behind the dining-room door, jumped out upon him 
with a little chuckle of joy, and flung her arms round his 
neck. 

‘‘Darling — give me a kiss,^^ she said. “YouTe the 
most beautiful person in the whole world. I knew you 
must be.” 

Henry kissed her obediently. She had taken him at a 
disadvantage. He could not say anything. That was 
out of the question. He held his tongue, and went 
shamefacedly to the sideboard. 

“All the gods of Greece rolled into one,” said Dolly, 
“and alive too.” 

“About Utchester this afternoon,” said Henry, with 
his back still turned. “Are you going to have the 
landau ?” 


124 


CHAPTER XIV 


G raham faucet was hungry. It was the day 
after Bella Keene had arrived at Needs — Oliver 
had telegraphed to say that he had been kept until the 
following day — and the whole party were coming over 
to luncheon. Graham expected his brother too. If the 
train from London were up to time, the dog-cart sent to 
meet it should be here now. So Graham stood with his 
favourite setter on the top of the steps, waiting, stroking 
his golden moustache, healthily looking forward to his 
food. 

Graham generally gave the impression of being rather 
picturesquely dressed without ever quite meaning it. His 
clothes always fitted him, but they gave him room for the 
free use of his big limbs. He always had a knitted waist- 
coat of a good colour. In the summer this would be a 
thin one of silk. He wore a collar widely opened at the 
neck so that his chin could move easily and the air could 
get at his throat. And he invariably wore the same kind 
of tie — dark blue with little white markings. Sometimes 
he would adorn it with a scarlet berry from the West 
Indies mounted on a pin. It was a worthless thing, but 
he liked it. It had belonged to his father. 

‘‘Dear old Gerald,’' he said to himself. “Rum cove, 
but it takes all sorts to make a world.” It would be jolly 
having him there for a bit. Wouldn’t he fuss about the 

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pictures in the hall as ever ! And pitch into Elsie for her 
arrangement of the drawing-room! A lot of nonsense 
about him, but a dear old chap, nevertheless. 

Clenham was an ugly, grey, imposing, barracks-like 
house, with big Corinthian columns in front and crude 
statuary on terraced lawns. There was a long drive 
through beech woods, a series of walled gardens, and on 
the southern side, beneath the terraces, a considerable 
lake. At one end of this, great masses of rhododendrons 
billowed down to the water’s edge : at the other, nearest 
to the house and opposite a little island, a small boat- 
house jutted out into the water with a miniature platform 
at the side of it and a spring-board for bathers. On a 
knoll round which the drive swept to the front of the 
house was a small grey stone temple. In the spring wild 
hyacinths covered the knoll with an almost even cloak 
of blue, and sunsets engoldened the little temple, and 
later shot crimson streaks behind it, throwing it into 
black and sinister relief. 

Everything was smooth and well-kept. The family 
instinct for perfection was highly developed in Graham, 
who applied it without stint to far more complicated 
conditions than those which faced his brother. 

The sun shone brilliantly. Some one was mowing 
grass, away out of sight. A peacock, mistaking his mas- 
ter’s intention in standing there, came mincing round the 
corner of the house with undulating neck and greedy 
eyes, his tail lightly sweeping the gravel. He was hoping 
to be fed. The young setter, whose innocent melting 
eyes had suddenly grown intense, moved inquisitively 
towards the bird, who beat his wings once, clucked 
harshly, and side-stepped across the drive. 

Presently came the pattering of feet upon the hall floor, 
and Dick, son and heir, in the full pride of his fourth 
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birthday, with a lovely shiny cavalry sword thrust into 
a shiny black belt, charged out and wrapped an arm 
round his father’s leg. 

‘T’ad a m’rang,” he said, ‘‘with cream in it. Are you 
going to ’ave a m’rang, daddy?” 

“Hope so, Dickums — when Uncle Gerald and the rest 
of ’em come.” 

“Daddy, do you think Uncle Gerald knows it’s my 
birthday ?” 

“I shouldn’t build on it, Dickums. Everybody can’t 
know it’s your birthday.” 

“Oh, but Uncle Gerald could. Uncle Gerald knew it 
was Chris’mis.” 

“What a memory you’ve got, child. Christmas! 
Still, that’s different. You mustn’t be disappointed if he 
doesn’t know it’s your birthday.” 

“Daddy,” said Dick, refusing to contemplate such an 
unhappy contingency, “Daddy, when I walked through 
the garden with Nana this morning, I met a worm.” 

“Met a worm! And what did he say to you? Did 
he say ‘Good-day, will you have a game of play?’ ” 

“No. Course he didn’f, daddy. Worms can’t talk. 
I put him under a big leaf.” 

“I expect he was very grateful. Ah, here’s the car- 
riage : and there’s Uncle Gerald. Draw your sword and 
salute.” 

Two dog-carts appeared at the bend of the drive one 
behind the other. 

Father and son stood straightly together on the top of 
the steps. For a moment Graham forgot his luncheon, 
his brother and his friends. He was registering the 
meeting of the worm in the storehouse of his memory, in 
order to repeat it at the earliest secluded moment to his 
wife. He looked at his boy even whilst he was already 

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waving his hand towards the carriage. There he stood 
firmly, the right height for his age, cobbily built, yet 
with the long legs and long fingers of his race already in 
evidence. His lovely little face was set and resolute. 
There was just the least frown on it denoting the earnest- 
ness proper to the occasion. For he was standing to 
attention with a drawn sword, saluting Uncle Gerald 
and ’daddy’s friends. Fair curls now losing the glint 
of gold they had a year ago tumbled in the slight 
breeze. 

^‘Awfully like his mother,” said Graham to himself. 

In the event it turned out that Uncle Gerald had got, 
by some surprising means, to know the date of the 
peculiar birthday as well as that of the general Christ- 
mas. The recognition of the fact came in the carriage 
with him — a mowing machine with wooden blades cov- 
ered with silver paper and a framework of delicious 
blue. By some means, obviously of an occult origin, 
Gerald had brought just exactly that which was most 
urgently needed. 

^‘My dear boy, where did you manage to get it ?” asked 
his sister-in-law later. 'T never thought you would.” 

“Thank you for the implied compliment, Elsie,” Gerald 
said insincerely, “but I didn’t get it, I concocted it my- 
self.” 

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Elsie asked the table at large. 

She was a dark, slight, vivacious little creature, of a 
dainty beauty, whose eye and mind had a common hori- 
zon on the crest of the nearest hill. Both she and her 
husband disapproved of Gerald, however fond of him 
they might be, and worried their heads about him. That 
he should have been ordained, and then after four or five 
years as a curate first in the country and then in London, 
should have refused one of the family livings and retired 
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into lay life seemed to them a social catastrophe. If he 
hadn’t wanted to be a parson, why didn’t he say so and 
be something else? It was his apparent idleness which 
wounded his brother most. Every moment of Graham’s 
every day (except Sundays) was filled with some useful 
or profitable, practical or pleasurable task. If it was 
not county affairs that gave him occupation, it was Clen- 
ham: if it was not shooting, or harvesting, or building, 
it was a game with Dick or schemes for surprising his 
wife with some unconjectured pleasure. His life was 
full of work and love and solemn enjoyment. He went 
to bed tired every night and thanked God for a happy 
day. 

“What do you think of Needs, Miss Keene?” he asked. 
“Snug little billet, hey?” 

“It’s delightful. But the garden wants a lot of do- 
ing yet. I’m honorary gardener there, you know. I was 
going to ask your advice.” 

“Not mine. That’s my wife’s affair. Great gardener 
— Elsie. Yes, I dare say things want smartening up a 
bit. But what can you expect? Your mother should 
have let me find her a tenant, Wedlaw. I always told 
her so. But she would have her own way. Women 
will. They all do. Hey, Mrs. Wedlaw? Yes, the place 
was left to go to rack and ruin. Well, it’s a good job 
we’ve got you down here at last. How’s Michael, by the 
way ?” 

“We heard yesterday. He’s doing splendidly. Bullet 
in his thigh and another smashed his arm. But they’ve 
got it out and they’re moving him from Jalala at last. 
Their field hospital was there. He says he’ll probably 
get sent home at once.” 

“The regiment was due home anyhow this year, wasn’t 
it ? I shall be glad because of young Clarey : a decent shot, 

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and he can sit a boss. Nice boy, you’d like him, Wed- 
law.” 

‘‘Yes, Michael’s mentioned him once or twice. Clarey 
was with him throughout this Chitral business. Fact, 
I believe he got Michael under cover.” 

“You must come and join Gerald and me in a swim 
one of these mornings. I always have my dip in the 
summer, and we’ll give you some breakfast afterwards.” 

“How delightful,” said Dolly. ‘T suppose Bella and 
I mustn’t come too?” 

Henry looked glum. Graham burst into a loud guffaw. 

“Ha, ha. D’ye hear that, Elsie? She wants to know 
if she can come and see us having our dip. Ha — ha. I’ll 
keep a look out for you, Mrs. Henry. I’ll send Aggett 
after you with the dogs. Ha — ha — ha! Better look 
after your wife, Wedlaw.” 

“Oh, she’s — ^incorrigible,” said Henry, trying to put a 
good face on it, and much relieved at his host’s evident 
condonation of the indelicacy. 

Elsie in the meantime had been discussing sumachs 
with Bella Keene. 

“I do hope you’ll be here over the thirtieth,” she 
said, “when we have our party. You’ll be able to meet 
Canon Moye — ^he’s the Vicar of Utchester, and he’s a 
great gardener.” 

“Which garden party is that, Elsie ?” asked Gerald. 

“The first, of course.” 

“She has two,” Gerald said, “one for the idle rich, 
and the other for the deserving poor.” 

“What nonsense you talk, Gerald. I do nothing of the 
kind. Only there are so many people that one must ask.” 

“Well, the place is large enough for them.” 

“Yes: but I do so dislike a great crush. It’s very in- 
correct of me, I know, but I like to be able to see every- 
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one and talk to them. You’ll bring Miss Keene over, 
won’t you ?” she added to Dolly. ‘‘And now, would you 
like to come out? It’s such a glorious day. And if 
it wouldn’t bore you very much, we’ll have Dick on the 
lawn. It’s his birthday, bless him. I want you to see 
my little boy, Miss Keene.” 

Knowing that Gerald was impatient to see Needs, now 
that the house was in order, and if the truth be fully 
appreciated, anxious to have the evening free for once 
in a busy while with Dick, Graham urged his brother 
to drive back to tea with the Wedlaws and to walk home 
afterwards for his health’s sake and to be sure and not 
be late for dinner; and for his part Gerald wished to 
examine a picture of a Dutch interior which Dolly had 
hung in the hall. Its authenticity was doubtful, but the 
splendour of its cold blues and vivid scarlets, and at one 
side its wealth of yellow light had, at a first glance, some 
time ago, made him admit the doubt. 

On their return, however, though Bella was vouch- 
safed another opportunity for sampling local talent, 
Gerald’s investigations were hampered. For there en- 
tered the gate just before them a governess car conveying 
two women driven by a pale boy of fifteen, and there fol- 
lowed them at an interval of a few minutes, a large 
hired landau with three more. Tea was brought out to 
the shade of the cedar tree. Bella and Gerald had 
successively to listen to Mrs. Moye, her daughter Violet 
and her son Jack, also to Miss Elstree, Miss Ethel Els- 
tree, and their friend. Miss Cooper. 

“I always think that tea out of doors is very agree- 
able,” Mrs. Moye said, “and this tree is deliciously 
shady.” 

“We have a cedar in our garden, you know,” said 
Miss Elstree, ‘'but it is not so graceful as yours, Mrs, 

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Wedlaw. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s tree. But 
I am very much afraid that I do.” 

‘What a charming old-world appearance your garden 
has,” said Mrs. Moye. “That stone balustrade at the 
end of the lawn — it is very old, and yet I don’t remember 
seeing it in your dear mother’s time, Mr. Wedlaw.” 

“No, as a matter of fact we’ve only just put it up. 
It’s old chimney copings from a house near by that was 
pulled down. I thought it would be so jolly to see flowers 
and things growing through the holes. At present it’s 
rather like a big village stocks. If anyone misbehaves 
themselves we’ll put their feet through.” 

Mrs. Moye chuckled good-humouredly. “You are 
very clever to have thought of it. I’m sure I should 
never have done so” — a surety that was doubly sure. 

“You are fortunate to have so picturesque a home,” 
Mrs. Moye went on. “The rooms are quite charming. 
You have a boudoir, have you not? I must see that 
one day. How very fortunate you are!” 

“Fancy! a boudoir!” exclaimed Violet, with uplifted 
eyes. She said very little, but kept her eyes upon her 
mother. Now and again Dolly noticed that she straight- 
ened her back suddenly. This was in obedience to some 
mystic sign. Her inelegance in repose constituted her 
principal bad habit. 

“No: it’s only a little den,” Dolly told her. She 
uncomfortably felt that she had risen in her neighbours’ 
estimation on account of this. Mrs. Moye leaned 
towards her. 

“I have been wondering,” she said, “now that you 
have quite settled down in your new home, whether you 
would help us at our annual festival. Jack, dear, where 
^re your manners? Can’t you see Mrs. Wedlaw is hold- 
ing out a cup? Yes, our festival is on the second.” 
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don't think I’m festive enough,” said Dolly. 

Mrs. Moye smiled benevolently. She was a stout 
woman whose predilection towards bright colours waged 
horrible war with her complexion. 

“Ah, you do not need to be very festive.” 

“And you have all your needs,” Jack put in, hurriedly. 
He had been waiting for the opportunity with much 
eagerness; but a venomous frown from his sister was 
the only response. He grinned self-consciously, wrig- 
gled in his chair and coughed unnecessarily over a 
mouthful of cake. That made him upset his cup, which 
he tried to catch with the saucer, to the destruction of 
both. From Mrs. Moye, many expressions of terror, 
consternation, and anger with the boy followed, the last 
taking precedence in quality and volume. 

“My dear Mrs. Wedlaw, I am truly grieved. I must 
and I will — ^Violet, don’t let me forget — I must send you 
a box of this wonderful new preparation, Novo-Tenax. 
You can do anything with it. You just put on a very 
thin layer with a brush — a stiff brush is better : we use an 
old nail brush, to be exact — and the mend is most satis- 
factory.” 

“Like that stuff of yours, Gerald,” said Henry. “He’s 
invented some capital cement for broken china, Mrs. 
Moye.” 

“Indeed,” Mrs. Moye answered with severe dignity. 
“You are very clever.” 

“Only rather. I’m afraid,” said Gerald. 

“The conceit!” said Mrs. Moye to herself. 

Turning to the luckless Jack, Gerald tried to talk 
about all the things which interested him least, in the 
hope of pleasing the boy. Jack had very little to say 
for himself. He was a gloomy youth who indulged in 
long, fidgeting silences. “And will one day make a name 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


for himself by writing novels with a purpose or sermons 
without one,” Gerald put it afterwards. 

The question of the church festival, which included 
or was included by a sale of work, was discussed; and 
Dolly finally agreed to hold a stall, for which Miss Els- 
tree amongst others had prepared merchandise. Having 
won her main point, Mrs. Moye refrained from the 
subsidiary items on her begging list, which, in the event 
of initial failure, she had intended to present for Dolly’s 
consideration. They could keep. She was too old a 
hand to risk the aggravation of a goose who would al- 
most certainly lay golden eggs in time to come : par- 
ticularly when the Wedlaws, judged now by their 
friendship with Gerald Faucet, could not possibly be 
earnest Church people. Gerald was notorious in the 
neighbourhood of his old home. The marvel was that 
he had the face ever to come there. It was, however, 
very significant that he did not often stay at Clenham — 
very significant. It was known — quite well known — 
that Sir Graham’s great sorrow was his younger brother, 
also that he was continually paying his debts, and avert- 
ing by his generosity and brotherly feeling — it could no 
longer be affection — ^goodness only knew what terrible 
scandals. Indeed, it was not at all nice of the Wedlaws to 
allow her to meet such a person. She hoped that she had 
made that plain, so far as a woman of the world could, 
in the way she had acknowledged his bow and the re- 
mark about the cement — as if that could be compared 
with a patent that you bought. She would never have 
taken Dolly to her rather imposing bosom if she had 
known of this lamentable intimacy. It had seemed to 
Mrs. Moye only kind to treat a shy young bride with 
downright affection from the very outset. Besides, that 
was the best way, as she knew from Ions: experience, to 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


achieve the Church’s ends. Of course Utchester was not 
the Wedlaws’ parish; but it was the most important liv- 
ing for many leagues round, and new people must learn 
to perceive its importance. The clergyman at Clenham 
was a very good man — ^she supposed there could be no 
gainsaying that — but he was not very interesting so- 
cially, and he was not — important. On behalf of the 
diocese, so to say, she had welcomed Dolly to her new 
home. Dolly, as a shy young bride, had more than once 
filled her heart with misgivings, which she had put out 
of mind — partly from Christian forbearance and partly 
for the sake of ultimate profit. For everyone knew that 
Dolly was an heiress. . . . 

Gerald, in the meantime, was listening to an animated 
description of parochial sport from the younger Miss 
Elstree, embellished by the ejaculatory approval of Miss 
Cooper. Hockey, a rather daring innovation, discour- 
aged by Ethel’s sister and by Mrs. Moye, was en- 
thusiastically dilated upon : and to come to more topical 
events, otter-hunting and tennis. Fox-hunting had been 
disposed of rather quickly as being expensive, though 
it had to be included in order to air the narrator’s ac- 
quaintance with “Grahamie.” Grahamie, it appeared, 
was the outstanding personality of the hunt. Gerald 
listened gravely and gave every indication, of enraptured 
attention. His entertainers had not the slightest idea 
who he was, and could hardly be expected to foresee 
the moment, a couple of hours later, when Grahamie 
would disgustedly tell his brother of infernal schoolgirls 
who rode over hounds. If she had known the identity of 
this beautifully dressed but ugly man she would have 
been self-conscious under the disapproving eyes of her 
elders. Miss Elstree, who was much older than Ethel, 
smiled reticently to herself now and again. She would 

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tell these stupid children on their way home what they 
had been doing. She had known Gerald when Ethel 
was learning the unessential facts of English history in 
the schoolroom. She had rather conspicuously interested 
herself in the church to which he had then just been 
given a title. She had begged him to take care of him- 
self, not to over-v/ork. The alms-bags which were still 
in use there nearly ten years later were of her em- 
broidery. With all her soul in her eyes she had gazed 
at him leaning indifferently from the pulpit. And — 
nothing whatever had happened. The poignancy had 
been entirely one-sided. He was a wicked heretic. He 
was — as fascinating as ever. She rose. 

‘T think, dear, it’s getting rather late. ...” 

Mrs. Moye turned from Henry to Dolly. 

“And we must be going home too,” she said, ‘‘but 
before we go there’s a little piece of news which I am 
sure you’ll like to hear. “Yes, dear,” she said, in an 
arch aside to her daughter, “we’re talking about you. 
Violet is just engaged. Such a dear fellow — ^Captain 
Ellis. He’s a sapper. Such clever men they always are : 
indeed they have to be. The examinations for Woolwich 
are very severe.” 

Violet’s face lit up with a smile as she thanked Dolly 
for her congratulations. 

“I hope I may bring him over to Needs one day,” 
she said. “He is coming to stay with us in the autumn, 
isn’t he, mother?” 

“Yes, sweetheart, of course.” 

“And that,” said Bella to herself, “has let the cat out 
of the bag.” 

“The dear bishop is delighted. Violet is a great pet 
of his, you know. Yes, my cousin. Colonel Glougham, 
was also in the Engineers. He practically saved Egypt. 

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The general said so. It was at El Teb. He would have 
been general himself if he had not had to retire on ac- 
count of age.’' 

‘‘You see,” she told Dolly, out of Violet’s hearing as 
they went slowly towards the house, “you see, it is a 
great comfort to me. Of course, I shall miss the dear 
child. But that is a thing we old mothers must make 
up our minds to — as you will see if ever you have a 
grown-up daughter. But on the other hand, it puts an 
end to all that nonsense about Bertie Blakeson. That 
was most unfortunate. I think I told you?” 

“Yes,” said Dolly quietly. Indeed, much against her 
will, Dolly from the first moment of her acquaintance 
with Mrs. Moye, had been the victim of her sighing 
multiloquence in matters of love and birth and death. 

“The Blakesons are most undesirable. I was hor- 
rified — horrified, my dear — I can tell you, as a married 
woman — when I learned that he seriously proposed to 
my child — of course she is only a child — I really thought 

the Vicar and I would have ” She could find no 

word to indicate the now safely eluded despair. 

“It must have been very trying,” said Dolly, making 
her dark eyes big with sympathy — a half conscious knack 
which had gained for her many unrequired confidences. 

“I don’t mean that he was in any way a bad boy, 
you understand — or of course I should never have had 
him in my house. That goes without saying.” (“Only 
it doesn’t,” said Dolly to herself.) But we never sup- 
posed he would have presumed so far. When I was a 
girl such a thing would have been impossible. After- 
wards we naturally made it quite plain what we thought.” 

“Isn’t Bertie Blakeson a very nice boy ? I’ve met him 
once. I thought him jolly.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Moye, “that’s because you’ve got 

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a soft heart. I can see that . . . Really, most common 
people — not our class at all. How a daughter of mine 
could have been so deceived I am unable to imagine. 
But girls are foolish creatures. It is most fortunate that 
she had her parents. Otherwise I shudder to think what 
might have happened. I shudder to think, my dear. Of 
course he had money, you know. But money is not 
everything. Dear Captain Ellis is also well off in this 
world’s goods. Ah, I see your groom has brought the 
jingle round.” 

“I hope Violet will be very happy,” said Dolly. 

‘‘She is a sensible girl, really, in her heart, but im- 
pulsive. She is prone to act without thinking, and that 
leads to such dangers, does it not? Ah, but girls are 
very much alike. Good-hyty dear Mrs. Wedlaw.” 


138 


CHAPTER XV 


D OLLY’S sitting-room was an interesting little place 
as reflecting the period and Dolly’s interpretation 
of it. The walls were covered with plain white paper. 
Over the little fireplace was an oval gilt looking-glass. 
On the opposite side of the room hung Beardsley’s 
poster for a ‘'Comedy of Sighs” — sulky eyes gazing at 
you through a spotted curtain. Gerald Faucet, in an 
impish mood, had made a notable contribution in the 
form of a stencilled frieze, which represented conven- 
tionalised lizards of a primrose yellow, interlaced in 
mortal combat. Beneath the poster there was a small 
sofa covered with plain cloth of deep dark red. An 
armchair stood on one side of the fireplace near a little 
white bookcase filled with little white-bound books of 
modern verse. Over the door were the initials D. W. 
painted scarlet in Gothic characters. And near by where 
the room ran back into a miniature alcove, once the 
powdering closet for the bedroom next to it, there hung 
two or three blue and white plates. At the window there 
was a writing-table with a great array of sealing-wax, 
pens, various coloured inks, and two silver candlesticks. 
Here it was that Dolly wrote her letters, or read on wet 
afternoons when Henry was out. Here it was that 
she proposed to have long talks with Bella; and hither 
sometimes for very privileged people she would have 
tea brought. 


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And there to-night was Bella Keene in a very gorgeous 
dressing-gown, with a cigarette, more preposterously 
hideous than ever. She spread herself over the armchair 
in a most unmaidenly attitude, and talked to Dolly, who 
lay on the sofa with the angle of her jaw resting on her 
hand, and a fox terrier curled up by her feet. 

‘‘TheyVe rather dears,” she said. They had been 
discussing neighbours in general and the experiences of 
that day in particular. 

“Did I say they were not? Have you got any choco- 
late? You always used to. I have a sudden desire for 
chocolate. No Elvas plums, I suppose?” 

“That drawer to your left. Throw me one too. Ta. 
No : I know you haven't said it. But you looked it and 
I felt it about you. You think they’re awful. I mean 
this afternoon.” 

“I do, rather.” 

“Just because they’re small and not very brilliant or 
worldly: but you can’t help recognising that in real 
things^ ” 

“My dear, you’re wrong. You evidently want my 
opinion and you shall have it. I don’t exactly love snobs, 
and I do prefer people who don’t talk about church 
festivals to strangers or expatiate on the up-to-dateness 
of the local draper, or who are perpetually trying to 
impress you. I don’t like their amusements and I don’t 
much care about their clothes. But I can put up with 
all that — ^gladly — if they were genuinely good and 
virtuous at bottom. They’re not.” 

Dolly laughed with great enjoyment. 

“My dear Bella! How truly terrible! What would 
Canon Moye say ? I hope that you are not suggesting 
that his wife has designs upon Henry?” 

“Dolly, I was never more serious in my life. I 
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watched her this afternoon, and you have told me the 
history of Violet. That old woman ought to be fried 
in batter and I’ll tell you why. If ever I saw a bad case 
of arranged marriage, it was there. The total indiffer- 
ence of that poor, anaemic little creature. . . . Didn’t 
you see how she forced herself to smile when you con- 
gratulated her ? And then she gave it all away by asking 
her mother if it wasn’t so — her young man coming to 
stay with them. She had no sort of hand in it.” 

“Yes, I noticed that : but look at the girl. How could 
she have a hand in anything?” 

“But she did. She wanted to marry this precious 
Bertie. She didn’t deserve to, of course, or she would 
have : or in any case she wouldn’t have allowed consola- 
tion to be forced upon her in the shape of Captain 
Ellis. If poor rejected Bertie was so undesirable how did 
she come to make his acquaintance?” 

“Oh! there of course — at Utchester — in the vicarage 
garden. I believe the boy has played tennis with her 
and danced and all the rest of it. Quite a good boy too. 
I’ve seen him: a trifle pushing — but what would you 
have? Blakeson pere made something in a factory. I 
don’t know what. He’s traditional — fat, mutton-chop 
whiskers, damp forehead; he talks a language I don’t 
understand, not having lived in that part of the country. 
But he’s a good old buffer, rolls in money and spends 
it. Immensely kind, I believe; and they’re not always.” 

“I think I see,” said Bella, frowning. “He buys a 
place at Utchester, and gives people a good time and 
subscribes nobly to — well — annual church bazaars . . . 
the new brass eagle lectern, given by Mr. Blakeson of 
the Cedars ... I can see it in the parish magazine.” 

“Well done, Bella, and he did too.” 

“Of course he did. And most thankful they ought to 

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have been that Violet had a good chance of being com- 
fortable with a husband who would probably be just as 
good as herself socially and better in all other ways. I 
know the Moye type, my dear. They gravitate towards 
money. They get all they can from people they affect 
to despise, and when those poor wretches take them at 
their word, so to speak, they turn round and are very 
superior. Cads !” 

"‘Yes, now that you put it like that ’’ 

“And the poor little idiot would most likely have got 
what she wanted but that the more eligible young man 

was in the offing. A marriage has been arranged 

Oh! my dear girl, I do hate it. I can’t tell you how 
pleased I am you avoided that.” 

“Thank Heaven for a modern and rather romantic 
mamma. I was left to my own devices.” 

“And that is well enough in reason,” said Bella, re- 
membering Felix Brougham and the socialist painter. 
"‘You have a head on your shoulders. Think, if you’d 
been Violet Moye.” 

“Quite unprofitable to think any such thing,” and Dolly 
made a face. 

“I dare say you think I’m a silly old virgin with no 
right to talk, but it comes over me sometimes and I 
must. Did you hear the woman keep telling the wretched 
child to sit up? I must say I don’t like to see a girl 
slouching all over the place. I’m doing it now, but then 
I’m not a girl. That’s the old story of — men don’t like 
it. Don’t do this and don’t do that — men don’t like it. 
It’s not ladylike. But never the most elementary teach- 
ing of what men do like. That, I take it, would not be 
quite nice. Quite nice — it just fails to cover a multitude 
of the most detestable sins. I should have thought that 
men like women, not sticks.” 

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‘T think/* said Dolly, with some knowledge of her 
own, ‘‘that men often like what they are supposed to 
like/* 

“I am perfectly certain that Mrs. Moye will tell her 
daughter not to let her husband see that she cares about 
him — supposing she does. That would make her cheap, 
you know — ^particularly before marriage. Men don’t re- 
spect love. It is so coarse and uncivilised, isn’t it? The 
shy female must always shrink away.” 

“The old story of the hunting instinct, I suppose. The 
principle being that the more you shrink away, the more 
eager the man is to come after.” 

“Which is common prostitution — nothing more or less. 
Mrs. Moye would like to know that, wouldn’t she? 
Oh ! it makes me positively ill — and that whipping round 
the neighbourhood for their festival. It’s so utterly soul- 
less and commercial. It’s such presumption. What 
earthly right has the woman to take it for granted that 
you care a tuppenny bit about her stuffy church ?” 

“It’s not an earthly right she claims, Bella. That’s 
what disarms one. But you had a very bad sample this 
afternoon. And really they are kind souls. If one 
were ill or anything I’m sure they’d be dears.” 

“Well, you’ve got Graham Faucet and his wife. 
They’re not brilliant. But, my dear, it almost made me 
cry with pure delight to look at that man. His wife 
struck me as a good sort and it leaves off there. But 
Sir Graham ! Do you realise what it means to be utterly 
and completely honest and trustworthy? You think it’s 
fairly common. But it isn’t in the way I mean. You 
cannot look at that man without feeling at once and for 
always that he is the most scrupulously true, brave, 
downright honourable, thoroughbred gentleman you’ll 
ever meet. He made me say to myself : ‘Well now. I’m 

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safe!' Tell me, don’t people rush to him from all the 
ends of the earth and beg him on their knees to be their 
trustee ?” 

‘T believe he does do a good deal of it.” 

‘‘Of course he does, and — no — he’s not clever: but 
I’ll stake my life he’s a good farmer and a good magis- 
trate, which isn’t common, and good at everything he 
professes to do. No — he’s not clever, thank God, nor 
brilliant, nor intellectual, but he is wise, Dolly: he is 
wise. Of how many people can you say that?” 

“You’re quite right, Bella. That’s just it. He hasn’t 
learnt much from books and his head’s a bit thick. But 
he’s got it out of experience and out of instinct. He is 
wise. I’m so glad he strikes you like that. Such a 
splendid friend for Henry, too. You ought to tell Gerald 
all that. He pretends to laugh at him, but he thinks 
there’s no one like him, really and truly.” 

“To see him with that splendid little scamp of a boy 
was what I liked. And then he’s the best-looking man 
I’ve ever seen. I’m a woman and I can’t help it.” 

“Yes. Oh, he is a dear. He’s got one weakness,” 
and Dolly chuckled suddenly. 

“So I should hope.” 

“The dear old thing believes he’s a bit of a literary cuss 
— Gerald told me this — and writes little accounts of runs 
with the hounds for the Field/* 

“He’s a darling,” said Bella, “and — and what an anti- 
dote to London and the times we live in.” 

Dolly sat up and threw out her arms, stretching luxuri- 
ously. “That reminds me — it’s rather a big jump — ^but 
what’s the matter with Tom Sail?” 

“What do you mean — the matter?” 

“What’s he done? I was going to ask him here and 
Henry won’t have him.” 

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‘‘Oh! Dolly darling, you are an idiot. What do you 
want a nasty little toad like that for? Somebody ran 
off with his wife — only they didn’t run — ^that is the story 
anyhow — ^and he took so much down not to kick up a 
fuss. No, he’s not everybody’s potato and that’s a fact.” 

“How perfectly hateful and low. I’d no idea it was 
that. I quite agree with Henry. But why on earth 
couldn’t he say so ?” 

So that was all. The man was merely a sordid black- 
guard of the meanest and foulest. The glamour was all 
gone, all quite gone. Dolly had, at least, expected to 
learn that Sail went in for the Black Mass, or that he 
practised as a consultant poisoner. 

“Yes,” said Bella, “that’s all about Master Sail. He’s 
a stipendiary cuckold.” 

“Very well, then,” Dolly answered. “I understand. 
Certainly he shall never come here. I only thought he’d 
wake things up a bit.” 

“Ah!” said Bella. 

It was a school friend at the beginning who had piloted 
Dolly into the first excitements of artistic society. And 
there it was by some chance that she had met Bella 
Keene, who made a point of touching life at all levels. 
Bella was old enough to take care of herself. She was 
quite sure that Dolly was not. She sighed with im- 
mense relief when Dolly agreed to marry Henry. Dolly 
did nothing, made nothing. She had never passed beyond 
the schoolroom standard of prettiness in water-colour 
drawing. She could never occupy a real place in the cir- 
cle : and for that very reason it was distinctly dangerous 
for her to try. She was much too curious. And Bella 
quickly grasped the fact that there was a greater peril in 
curiosity than in the calculating snobbery which seeks 
association with notorious people. She had not supposed 

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that Dolly’s infatuation with the tiresome point of view 
would prove to be so steadfast. She had believed it the 
phase of a moment: for Bella herself, with ten years’ 
start of Dolly, or handicap — whichever way you like 
to see it — regarded all the intense movements as a pass- 
ing craze. And she did not see that a craze, with some 
considerable backing, was, however transient, the reflec- 
tion of an actual moment. She did not see, to take one 
instance, that the Yellow Book, which merely tickled the 
backbone of England, took a definite and perfectly 
genuine place in regard to some other part of the skele- 
ton. She thought in fact that Dolly was meant for what 
apparently she had chosen. Her vicarious interest in, 
and the childlike pleasure she derived from the iniquity 
of other people, was, in Bella’s estimation, to be classed 
with dolls, biting your fingers, and a passion for Miss 
Edgeworth’s novels — something that you grew out of. 
Now she was just a little disappointed. 

‘‘She’ll never stand this,” said Bella to herself. 

However, Dolly had plenty of money and would no 
doubt Spend a certain amount of time in London every 
year. Bella devoutly hoped so for her own sake. Henry 
had said a good deal about travelling too. Her concern 
for Dolly had not actually grown into definite alarm, but 
she had an uneasy feeling that it might if she kept her 
eyes open. Country life, even with the Faucets to leaven 
the neighbourhood, with a garden to occupy her, and 
probably children in the future, seemed too unlikely a 
background for Dolly to be lastingly felicitous. Bella 
could understand her attraction to Henry, but she mis- 
trusted the permanent lack of common ground between 
them. Henry seemed to her too colourless a personality 
for Dolly. “They say,” she thought to herself, as she 
climbed comfortably into bed that night, “they say 
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women only want a good square man, but do they? I 
should want a lot more/’ 

Then she decided that Dolly was a funny mixture and 
remembered that once already she had changed her mind 
about her. ^Terhaps she’ll grow sick of being tiresome 
and become a turnip,” she thought. That was terrible. 
And as Bella did not believe in dwelling on terrible 
contingencies the last thing at night, she resolutely put 
the thought from her, sipped at her glass of hot water, 
and opened The Light that Failed, then recently pub- 
lished. Torpenhow had just gone off to Vitry-sur-Marne 
to fetch Maisie. Bella was exceedingly anxious to know 
what Maisie would do. 

“Bella thinks there is no one in the world like 
Graham,” Dolly said to Henry later. 

“Quite right. Fine chap in every way — ^thoroughly 
sound. I said she was a sensible woman.” 

“Yes, and then he is really beautiful.” 

“Beautiful — it’s a funny word to use about a man. 
Certainly he’s a good looking feller. I don’t deny that. 
But I hate to hear a man spoken of as beautiful. It’s 
not the thing.” 

“But they are beautiful all the same — sometimes.” 

And then common sense overcame devilry and she 
said no more. 


147 


CHAPTER XVI 


T SHALL never make it pay/’ said Henry. 

He had spent the morning leisurely showing Oliver 
over the little farm, and now they tramped up the steep 
lane from the valley towards the house. 

‘T shall never make it pay.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t know about that,” Oliver answered. 
“But not enough to be worth the candle, I agree. You 
seem to have got things pretty smooth already.” 

“So — so. After all, it is only a hedge and a ditch and 
a bit of grass. But I wish the devil it was more. I 
should like a good bit of land, you know, Oliver, and 
to farm it well. I believe there’s money in farming 
yet.” 

“Not a great deal, old man. But as you haven’t got 
a great lot I should get going at something else. Why 
not politics?” 

That a man of his own age, though, of course, not of 
his own brain power, should be content to settle down 
on a small farm and to spend the long and placid re- 
mainder of his life there was incomprehensible to Oliver 
Maitland, who was himself a restless worker, with in- 
numerable irons in the fire, to be drawn out and ham- 
mered in quick succeeding hurries. In his heart he rather 
despised Henry for his lack of ambition, at the same time 
envying his snug retreat, his safe prosperity, his married 
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ease. Henry had led an active enough life in his working 
days. Surely the only reason for marrying money was 
to get a little power, a little impetus for more congenial 
work. Oliver did not despise bought pleasures and com- 
forts — far from it. But he took them as a matter of 
course. And as a rule he had been able to enjoy a 
good share of them, though the buying had not been 
his. But poor old Henry had not the makings of a suc- 
cessful man in him. Perhaps it was just as well that he 
should idle in his peaceful backwater. So really it was 
quite safe to suggest the formation of some aim in life. 
Politics ! Oliver could hardly restrain his laughter when 
he said it. Poor, stupid old Henry taking up politics! 

“Very little doing down here in that way. Knightley, 
our member, is a very sound fellow. Know him? Oh, 
I dare say I shall mess about with that sort of thing 
occasionally. Faucet’s persuaded me to go and sit on the 
bench. Bit of a bore ; but people expect you to do some- 
thing.” 

Henry was disappointed. He had hoped for sympathy 
from Oliver about the obvious lack of money to be made 
from Needs. Only a few days before he had made a 
similar complaint to Dolly. 

“What on earth do you want to make money out of 
it for?” she had asked. “We’ve got all we want. So 
long as we don’t actually run it at a loss, I can’t see what 
you have to find fault with. Even if we did lose a little 
over it, it wouldn’t matter.” 

“Wouldn’t matter?” 

“No, it’s worth it. It’s such fun to have the place 
and make it nice; and you’re providing a living for 
several men, all with large families. One generally pays 
for one’s fun. To make your fun pay its own expenses 

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is almost too good to be true, and so long as you get the 
best you can out of it 

‘‘You have no idea of the value of money,” said 
Henry. 

“Thank God I haven't, then,” said Dolly. 

And that, thought Henry, Avas an expression Dolly 
was much too fond of. If he chose to take the name 
of God in vain, he could. That was different. He was 
a man. Dolly, he considered, was too ready with words 
which were exclusively for male use. She had said once 
that the weather was damnable. A slip of the tongue, 
no doubt, but he didn’t like it; a deal too modern for 
him. 

He continued to worry over Needs. It ought to be 
made to pay. It was positively sinful to spend money 
without hope of return. 

Oliver talked politics most of that day. It appeared 
that he had been asked to stand for a Midland con- 
stituency whose present member was about to apply for 
the Chiltern Hundreds. A number of important people 
had begged him to fill the gap. But he was unable to 
make up his mind. He would like it, but he doubted 
whether he could afford it . . . and then came a string 
of good stories about ministers and lights that shone 
refulgently in the legal world. And everyone laughed. 
Oliver was in great form, Henry decided. He had a 
wonderful knack of felling a story well and he was a 
good mimic too. And that, in Dolly’s estimation, almost 
made up for the strength of the cigars that he would 
smoke indoors. 

Oliver had arrived at eleven o’clock the previous night, 
at which hour Henry had insisted upon regulation dinner 
for him. Dolly had supposed that cold remains prefaced 
by soup would meet the case of so old a campaigner. 
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At that Henry had been quite angry. He would treat 
his guests properly. There should be no miserable make- 
shift for Oliver. 

‘^But it’s really rather hard on the servants.” 

That was rubbish, Henry had said. What were serv- 
ants paid for? It didn’t happen every night. And he 
wasn’t going to allow Oliver to think that they were 
savages. 

Then Oliver had insisted upon dressing and had 
lingered in a hot bath. He had been hungry, but meant 
to dine in comfort. To come straight in from his 
journey, to sit down and eat just as he was, did not at 
all fit in with his idea of pleasure. He, too, liked to 
do things properly. So the late meal was kept waiting 
later still, and Oliver did not so much as acknowledge 
the amount of trouble given. Dolly had walked up and 
down, expecting him downstairs at any moment, and feel- 
ing quite unable to share the cool repose of Bella who 
played ‘^Miss Milligan” in the corner of the hall, pre- 
paratory ta bed. She had no intention of sitting up to 
amuse Oliver. 

Dolly could not forget her upbringing. She had been 
taught to consider the servants, not to give trouble. She 
had not yet learned to take princely entertainment for 
said. Lofty sentiments of this sort might be well enough 
for millionaires. . . . The economical teaching of her 
childhood clung to her, though not so persistently as 
it did to Henry, the inspiration of whose teaching (what- 
ever vulgar practice might make necessary) was not so 
economical. Even Henry had been a little impatient at 
last. But that was only lest, after all, dinner should 
be spoilt. 

Oliver, as has been suggested before, planned his course 
of conduct in other people’s houses on the principle that 

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the more trouble he gave, the greater the sense of his 
importance. He knew better, however, than to try this 
on the older generation. With his grandfather and others 
not inspired by modern ideas, he was the embodiment of 
diffidence, would fetch and carry, roll lawns, and refrain 
from smoking in drawing-rooms. 

But with both sorts he was invariably interesting and, 
partly through that channel, and partly by little culti- 
vated tricks of manner, exercised a charm of presence 
which only evaporated after his departure. Then it 
sometimes happened that the victim would settle down to 
think and learn to despise his share of wordly wisdom 
until the next time that he fell under fascination. 

It was with great pleasure that Dolly discovered 
Oliver’s intimacy with writers and painters. Of course 
he knew all the great names that always sounded a trifle 
old-fashioned to her, but then, when she asked him, she 
found that he was acquainted with all the most tire- 
some people in whose set she had herself found a place. 
Oh, yes, he knew Balliard, the socialist portrait painter, 
and discoursed about socialism with a forbearance which 
made Henry’s blood boil. And he knew all about the 
latest religious movements, and the latest exhibition of 
macabre drawings and the latest fancy dress ball, and the 
strange things that were supposed to have occurred 
there. Dolly got quite excited. Bella grinned. 

^'Do you take in the Queen?” she asked. Privately 
she made up her mind that he had read up his subjects 
during his journey down. His smattering was wide, 
but his knowledge was not deep. He was, however, quite 
convincing enough to please Dolly and to bore Henry. 

Perhaps Oliver took up Dolly’s point of view rather 
obtrusively. He was quick to see the lack of sympathy 
between husband and wife in regard to the ornamental 
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side of civilisation. It was quite natural for him to sup- 
pose a disagreement which almost amounted to antago- 
nism in these matters should, in course of time, bring 
about serious discord. It was nice to stand up for 
Dolly, to show her that though he was a practical man 
like Henry, and a hardened traveller, he could find time 
for the gentler things of life and had some knowledge 
of the softer accomplishments. He could talk scandal 
also with great gusto. He was full of surprises. It had 
always been a matter of wondering speculation to Dolly 
that one of Henry’s two most intimate friends should be 
a man like Gerald Faucet. Often enough she had tried 
to explain it, and found the question beyond her. She 
said to herself that these two liked each other because 
they were so essentially different, that on the one hand 
there could never be any rivalry between them and on 
the other they always had something to quarrel about. 
Dolly felt that if she had been a man she would never 
have been able to put up with Henry for a moment. 
It was the fact of her sex which made him a possible 
companion, the fact that she did not have to regard him 
as a friend . . . and as that thought came it worried 
her. Quickly she caught herself up. How often had 
she heard it said that the only basis of a happy marriage 
was friendship, that love without friendship was but a 
word? 

But it was stupid to allow her thoughts to run away at 
a tangent like that. Of course she was good friends with 
Henry. It might take a little time for them to settle 
down, completely to understand one another. Was that 
not to be expected ? A year ago they had scarcely met. 
Love first, friendship afterwards. It was very upsetting 
and unromantic, but she supposed that the settled af- 

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feet ion and companionship of later married life was the 
happiest condition to look forward to. 

Yes, she had often wondered what Henry found to 
suit him in Gerald. She could understand her own liking 
for him well enough. He was an intelligent critic of the 
arts, he was thoroughly in touch with the end of the 
century, he worshipped beauty. And Dolly, from the 
heights of her own ideals, looked down and wished that 
Henry also liked some of the things that she liked. 
To Gerald she laoked across to another height. 

Only a little less astonishing was Henry’s intimacy 
with Oliver Maitland. But then Oliver was so various 
and complex. Whilst turning his head, so to say, he 
could change from the sort of man who interested Henry 
to the sort of man who interested her. He seemed to 
know everybody, to be able to do everything. Cricket, 
for instance, had not been mentioned in the house until 
Graham Faucet rode over one morning to ask Henry 
who was to play in a local match that week, whether 
Oliver would care to play also. He did so, and Dolly 
noticed that he wore greatly envied colours round his 
waist. He was not a very enthusiastic cricketer, and so 
he had not talked about his prowess. Billiards, on the 
other hand, he was prone to discuss a good deal, and 
found fault with the new table upon which he played a 
level game with Henry every evening. 

On the third day of his visit, which was Sunday, they 
all went to church. 

‘‘Sure you don’t mind being dragged out?” Henry 
asked Oliver. “I have to put in an appearance now and 
again, but there’s no reason why you should.” 

“Oh, I like it,” said Oliver. “I like a little village 
church, and the door open and the sunshine outside. 
You wait till you hear me bawling the hymns. That’s 

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the only sort of church I can stand. IPs so simple.” 

The humanity of this went straight to Dolly^s heart. 
She felt that she would have liked to put it like that. 
But from Oliver it was quite unexpected. 

On the way home over the fields, while Bella and 
Henry walked energetically ahead, Oliver discussed 
everybody in the innermost shrine of Tiresomeness; and 
seemed for half an hour to identify himself with long 
hair and soulfully uplifted eyes. How was she to know 
that during the night he, for this very purpose, had 
dolefully read through the entire contents of her little 
white bookshelf ? Oliver was always thorough. Dolly’s 
collection of minor poetry held an almost unique place 
for him in that in order to discuss it he must undertake 
the task of special reading. 

Bella was rather taken by Oliver’s vague suggestion 
of politics for Henry, particularly with an eye to the 
future. She determined to make Dolly see it in the 
same light if ever she gave her the opportunity. She 
must, Bella thought, already have begun to realise that 
Needs would not for ever keep him occupied. It was 
too small; there would soon be much too little for him 
to do. Dolly would soon find herself wishing that Henry 
had a wider range of pursuits in which she could help 
him. Amusements — cricket and billiards and shooting 
and hunting when the time came, did not seem to her 
likely to prove everlastingly sufficient for him. Bella 
had always at the back of her mind the feeling that 
some definite work was necessary to happiness, more 
particularly for a young man who had earned his own 
living. 

It was curious that Oliver, whose life was almost en- 
tirely given to reading and talking, should have more 
to do, be perpetually busier than Henry, whose prac- 

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tical abilities were numerous. If the ram which pro- 
vided the house with water were out of order, Henry 
could — if he chose^ — put it right. It was natural that 
he should know how to do these things. But Oliver 
would discourse on the value of rams from the point 
of view of a County Council. 

The following day, which was the last of Oliver’s 
visit, the sudden recollection came to Dolly of the first 
time she had ever seen him. They were sitting under 
the cedar, waiting for tea to be brought out. Lady 
Faucet had just come over with Gerald, and at the mo- 
ment they were receiving a severe trouncing at croquet 
from Bella and Henry. 

‘T’ve got a bone to pick with you,” said Dolly. “I’d 
forgotten all about it till this minute.” 

Oliver sat up in his deep chair and stretched his lean 
neck forward like an inquisitive bird. 

“Now what have I done?” he asked. ‘'Timeo Danaos; 
and what gifts will make up for the lapse? A pot of 
Novo-Tenax? — wonderful stuff, all the rage now. It’ll 
stick anything from the stem of a pipe to a cast iron 
fire-back.” 

“You’re as bad about Novo-Tenax as Mrs. Moye. 
You got in my way when I was looking at a lovely 
picture at the New Gallery — ^you and a very pretty 
woman.” 

“New Gallery — have I been there? And a pretty 
woman and I got in your way. Did I really ? I’m very 
sorry. But I don’t somehow seem to ” 

This did not sound peculiarly gallant to Dolly, who 
called to mind what Bella had said about her likeness to 
Caterina Comaro as a reason for Oliver’s staring upon 
that occasion. 

He was staring at her now, with his round eyes ap- 

156 


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pealing to be taken as innocent. And just at that mo- 
ment Bella came up with Henry. 

“I'm telling him how rude he was that day at the 
Venetian Exhibition," said Dolly, “and he pretends he 
doesn’t remember." 

“I can bear Dolly out in that," Bella said, “and I 
believe you do remember perfectly well. You were 
with someone who Fm sure was very nice, with golden 
hair — bright golden, I remember — and cornflowers in 
her hat." 

“Yes," said Dolly, “I’d forgotten the corn-flowers." 

“Are you sure it was me?" Oliver asked. 

Then it was that Henry came round behind Dolly 
and Bella and frowned unnecessarily at Oliver. When 
he had first heard of the incident from Dolly he sup- 
posed that the woman in question was Minnie. She was 
pretty and had golden hair: and Henry had an idea 
that she was fond of blue. And Gerald, who by this 
time was behind Oliver, also remembered the woman 
whom Oliver, by his own account, had taken to the 
Venetian Exhibition and who had proposed to run away 
with him. And recalling this as he did, he dreaded lest 
Oliver should mention her name. He didn’t know it 
and didn’t want to know it. 

“Do you know," said Oliver, laughing a little at 
Henry’s frown, “I really forget about this. One goes 
about with people and sees pictures — oh, yes. I think 
it must have been a cousin of mine, Mary Dugdale. 
She’s mad about pictures and drags me after her all 
over London. It’s a terrible nuisance." 

The idea of Oliver being dragged anywhere against 
his will by a woman struck Bella as peculiarly funny, 
while Dolly was inwardly annoyed. Gerald and Henry, 
for different reasons, were immensely relieved. 


iS7k 


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That night, however, when Gerald had gone back to 
Clenham, and Oliver and Henry were smoking in the 
hall, the former was reminded of the incident by turn- 
ing over the leaves of an old number of an illustrated 
paper which reproduced some of the Venetian pictures. 
Amongst them was Caterina Cornaro. 

‘'Why did you frown at me so ferociously this after- 
noon?” he asked Henry. He was really anxious to 
know. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten what he 
had said to Gerald, but he saw a time coming when 
the fewer were the people who had seen him in certain 
company, the better would he be pleased. 

Henry looked acutely uncomfortable. He did not 
relish the question now that the dangerous ground for 
him had been traversed. 

"Well,” he said, "I thought the woman in question 
must be — Mrs. Rich.” He did not think of her as 
Minnie any more. 

"Why?” 

"Oh, the description.” 

Oliver snorted, got out of his chair and stretched 
himself. 

"The dekription happened to fit Mary Dugdale. It 
wasn’t very close, after all. Why on earth should it 
have been Minnie Rich?” 

"Oh, I don’t know. You’re a friend of hers.” 

"More or less — chiefly less. I don’t go to picture 
galleries with her in any case. Still jealous, Henry? 
Needn’t be, I assure you.” 

"Good Lord, no.” And Henry flushed at so terrible 
an implication. "Never was, for that matter.” 

He was thoroughly ashamed of his behaviour in the 
past, and he looked back upon it with such righteous 
disgust that he positively agreed with Oliver’s chivalrous 
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disclaimer in the matter of picture galleries. He was 
so thoroughly respectable now that he could not under- 
stand how he had ever come to be anything else. Cer- 
tainly it wouldn’t do for Oliver to go to public places 
with Minnie Rich. Oliver was quite right: sensible 
man. Secretly he was rather revolted by Oliver for the 
company he probably kept and the sort of life he led. 
Henry noticed that he did not talk about it quite as 
much as he used to; but that, doubtless, was in defer- 
ence to him. Quite right too. For Henry there was 
not the smallest tithe of joy in his retrospect of Minnie. 
He had never fallen in love, but in his feeling for Min- 
nie he had probably come nearer that condition than 
at any other time. He had never let himself go, how- 
ever. There had been no vehemence in the affair. He 
had regarded her with a carnal sentimentality which kept 
his thoughts pleasantly occupied in lonely places abroad. 
He was now desperately frightened of Minnie’s very 
name. The incident of to-day had momentarily dis- 
turbed the serenity of his present respectability. He 
couldn’t bring himself to discuss the subject with Oliver 
because his companion might think that he condoned 
his own conduct of the past. Men did these things, of 
course — there was no escape from that. But it was 
detestable that the memory of them should come back 
and twist his complacency out of shape. It wasn’t that 
he had any tender reverence for Dolly. The fact that 
he couldn’t bear to think of Minnie in the same moment 
with her, or refer to her in the same house, was the 
outcome of his attitude towards his marriage. Marriage 
to Henry was, amongst other things, the ceremonious 
cleavage with old ties. It was a rock-bound establish- 
ment. It was a condition which entailed a certain self- 
immolation in return for benefits. He felt as he sup- 

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posed a schoolmaster would feel in the event of his 
remembering that he was once a rowdy boy. And it was 
only Oliver’s cousin, after all, who had been the subject 
of the odious discussion. But for his guilty conscience 
he need not have troubled his head. 

“Minnie Rich is going to marry again,” said Oliver. 

“Really?” 

“Yes: a fellow who used to be in the North Leicester- 
shires — Bell. He has a farm in Western Australia now. 
I wonder how she’ll like it.” 

“I’m sick to death of women,” he went on, moving 
restlessly about the hall. “They’re more trouble than 
they’re worth. And the other man wants to kick up a 
fuss — particularly on the Continent. There’s a good 
deal to be said for duelling all the same.” 

“Oh, there is. What do you know about it, though?” 

Oliver had asked to be asked, but now allowed him- 
self the pleasure of being demure. A very little smile 
played on either side of his white projecting teeth. 

“You can’t get out of it, you know.” 

“You have, then — you’ve fought a duel ?” 

“Had to. If you’d seen the man’s face it’d have 
been quite enough. He insulted the girl I was with. 
Yes, Paris. No need to go into details. We fought 
next morning.” Oliver paused in his walk, and again 
snorted slightly, as he always did to express contempt. 

“What happened?” 

“Fortunately I keep up my foils — lucky for me. 
Ripped up his arm nicely. That’s the great dodge in 
these journalistic duels, the idea being to stop your man 
writing for a bit.” 

“Well done, Oliver. That was great.” 

“Man couldn’t fence, that was all. I might have 
struck a good swordsman. There was really no sport at 
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all. And the little beast of a girl wasn’t a bit grate- 
ful.” 

“Wasn’t she? The devil! Women don’t know the 
meaning of gratitude.” 

“They want beating — soundly — over your knee — hair- 
brush. It’s sober fact. They’d be all the better for 
it. They’d like it, too. I’m going to toddle up to 
bed. Got a lot to do to-morrow when I get up to town.” 

“Fancy,” said Henry to himself as he took his own 
candle upstairs a little later. “Fancy old Oliver fighting 
a duel! You never get to the bottom of him. Great 
chap, Oliver!” 


i6i 


CHAPTER XVII 


H enry had a mania for a certain kind of tidiness, 
or — perhaps it would be better said — for carrying 
any small task beyond its legitimate conclusion. As 
happened, it may be remembered, when he was making 
his preparations for the entertainment of Oliver on the 
lattePs return from the West Indies, he was in the habit 
of writing down the things he had to do on neat little 
slips of paper. At home, he invariably kept things in 
their proper places. He would always close the cigar 
box and put it back on the shelf dedicated to tobacco 
before he struck a match. He punctiliously cleaned the 
blade of his penknife and closed it, before using the 
pencil he had sharpened. He could not bear to see his 
cigars on the writing table any more than he could 
endure sitting down to write letters before folding up 
his newspaper and putting it in the brass rack kept for 
it. He must have wasted hours every month in his 
madness for method. 

One morning Dolly found him in his room with a 
small hammer tapping a gold collar stud into shape. He 
had trodden on it in his dressing-room and it had been 
badly bent. He had just got it to his satisfaction when 
Dolly came in to ask him what he proposed to do that 
afternoon. 

“Wait half a minute,'* he said. “I must just run 
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upstairs with this/' No, he would not send a servant. 
He had been accustomed to doing things for himself 
and certainly small things like that he would continue 
to do for himself. The fact that in any case he would 
have to go upstairs to change in another half-hour mat- 
tered not at all. He must solemnly return his collar 
stud to its place now, at the first possible moment. He 
could not wait even to answer his wife's question. Dolly 
knew that there was no arguing out this kind of thing, 
and being in a sympathetic mood her thoughts became 
caressing over his funny little ways. 

*‘My dear," she said, as soon as he returned, ‘T 
know exactly how you feel about finishing up and not 
being bothered with things out of their place. I re- 
member when I was quite a little girl reading a story 
in Aunt Judy once. Some children ran away and went 
adventuring in a barge on a canal; and they took a pie 
with them, dish and all. And they could not part with 
the dish for fear their mother would be cross. They stuck 
to it through thick and thin, and brought it home at the 
end, I think. I forget. Anyhow, that story always made 
me feel miserable — it does still. How terribly it must 
have spoilt their fun, having that wretched pie-dish 
with them all the time, and having to take care of it. 
I am sure if you ran away with a pie-dish, you’d spoil 
your adventure and come back in order to give it to the 
cook." 

While Dolly was saying this, rather proud of her apt 
analogy, Henry moved restlessly about the room. 

‘Well, wouldn't you?" asked Dolly, as he made no 
comment. 

“Don't know, I’m sure. What a lot of childish non- 
sense you do talk !” 

He said it so coldly, with so palpable a lack of in- 

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terest in the turn of her mind, that Dolly felt really 
hurt. 

She was so enthusiastic to understand Henry and to 
show him that she understood him, so anxious to find 
something lovable in all his fussiness and fidgeting. 
She had taken so much trouble to characterise him faith- 
fully; and he was not impressed at all. She was just 
talking childish nonsense and she bored him. 

‘‘Oh, very well,” she said, and proceeded once more 
to discuss plans for the day. 

It is not to be supposed that this incident stuck in her 
memory on its peculiar merits, but the significance of it 
and the temper of mind insensibly communicated to 
each — did. She felt, however vaguely, that she had been 
snubbed. And the consciousness of the snubbing re- 
mained with her long after its occasion had dropped into 
oblivion. 

That night, following her habit in warm weather, 
Dolly went for a stroll up and down the path which 
ran along the front of the house before going to 
bed. And Henry came out and joined her. It was not 
quite a cloudless sky, but overhead and to the south and 
west the stars blazed down and here and there a tree 
shot out a curtain of branches, amorphous and rather 
terrible, which seemed to hang black before the be- 
spangled blue. The scent of roses seemed almost to 
flutter in the air, and more wonderful still the smell of 
earth rose, the very essence of cleanliness and health. 

Dolly opened her nostrils wide and drank in the scents 
and the calm airs of the summer night. 

“Oh, isn’t it delicious?” she said, conscious of a cer- 
tain surprise that Henry should have come out. 

“It’s a lovely night,” he said. “I couldn’t resist com- 
ing out — ^it’s a beautiful country round here. It — well — 
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it comes over me sometimes like that. I can’t explain. 
You feel a poor sort of fool under all those stars — ^and 
yet I don’t know. They make you stand up to them 
somehow.” He did not then recall his evening of reali- 
sation in the Edgware Road or other inspired occasions. 
As in the past, so now, he Was not immediately con- 
scious that there was any difference in his attitude. 

Now in his more usual moods, Henry would no more 
have allowed himself to say as much as this than he 
would have allowed himself to entertain Tom Sail. But 
all that day the sunshine and the flowers had over- 
whelmed him, and now in sudden exaltation he could 
not keep himself from coming out to Dolly and saying, 
ridiculously enough and haltingly, a very little of what 
was in his mind. He could not have expressed himself 
even if he had let himself go, but he felt that he wanted 
Dolly to know. And it may well be that encouragement 
from her at that moment might have altered the course 
of their lives. He was like a child, who knows its les- 
son, but whose mind is momentarily paralysed for fear 
of the master; or rather he was unable, at all events 
without Dolly’s sympathy, to find words for what he 
felt. 

It is probable that on any other day Dolly would 
have taken him at his word and sympathised. But she 
could not but remember that Henry had quelled her own 
enthusiasm. The snub still rankled, and besides, surely 
(how certainly had she taken it for granted), the admi- 
ration of loveliness was her prerogative. Henry was a 
Philistine, and that she had known all along. He never 
would be, nor could be, anything else. She must always 
be above him on her own ground. Nevertheless, but for 
the incident of the morning, the big heart of her would 
have gone out to him in love and tenderness and new- 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


born joy^ to find that with her he shared the tremulous 
joys that overpowering beauty brings. But wilfully she 
closed her eyes. 

‘Tt’s all very well you talking like that, my dear. 
You’ve had a good dinner, and you’ve won about half 
a crown from Oliver Maitland at piquet. A fine lot you 
care about stars. Come in, it’s getting cold.” 

Henry did not answer. It came to him with horrid 
certainty that he had made a fool of himself. He did 
not consciously blame Dolly. The mood had died sud- 
denly in him. He too felt rather cold, and there was 
the cosy house behind him. What an idiot he was, for 
once in a while, to leave go of his saving shield of every 
day. Dolly was quite right. He had enjoyed his din- 
ner. Things had been very pleasant. And any man 
may stand under the stars and say it’s a nice night. 


i66 


CHAPTER XVIII 


I T was early in the winter when the trouble about 
Jenny arose. Dolly and Henry had been hunting, 
had stopped for a cup of tea at Clenham on the way, 
and arrived home in the dark. As they walked their 
horses quietly at the side of the road up to the gate, 
they were both somewhat startled at a sound which 
came from behind it. They could see nothing but the 
dim silhouette of the holly hedge just perceptibly darker 
than the sky beyond. The evening was still but for 
the moan of wet breezes through the trees. The 
sound, indefinable before, came again, nearer and more 
clear — the uncontrolled sobbing of a woman. Then as 
they turned their horses' heads towards the gate, they 
heard a whispering voice and the figure of a man slid 
away down the road in the opposite direction. 

‘‘Open the gate there," said Henry, who knew that 
someone must be just on the other side of it. The gate 
was heavy and badly hung. He often had trouble with 
it on horseback. 

There was no answer, and the gate did not move. 
They both distinctly heard the patter of feet upon the 
drive and momentarily caught a glimpse of something 
white where a gap in the trees lightened the intensity of 
the gloom. 

“That's one of the servants," said Henry, viciously 

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hitching his crop on to the latch. 'Tretty piece of im- 
pertinence.’^ 

''And she had a man there unless I am much mis- 
taken,” said Dolly. ‘T saw him. I shall have to see 
about it. Directly one’s back’s turned — ^ — ” 

'T’m not going to have that sort of thing. Damn 
this gate.” 

''She was crying,” Dolly said, as Henry thrust the 
gate open before him and held it while she rode through. 
"I will not have lovers’ quarrels in my drive.” 

A little later when she was dressing Dolly sought 
enlightenment from Johnson, her maid. Johnson, an 
old servant of her mother, whose integrity was as im- 
mediately obvious as Graham Faucet’s, held unofficial 
sway in the servants’ quarters at Needs by virtue of her 
apparent but not genuine ferocity and her age. 

"Somebody was talking to her young man in the drive 
to-night,” Dolly said while her hair was being brushed. 
"The master called to them to open the gate, and who- 
ever it was ran away.” 

"Oh, there. Miss Dolly! That was very wrong.” 

Dolly glanced at Johnson’s face in the glass. It told 
her nothing; she was just frowning as she always did 
over her task. 

"Ow-w,” Dolly cried, "I believe you pulled out a hand- 
ful by the roots then.” 

"Beg pardon, mum. About Jenny, mum; it would 
be a good thing if you was to speak to her.” 

"Oh, it was Jenny, was it? I do hope I shan’t have 
to get rid of her. She has the makings of a good serv- 
ant. She’s a nice little thing.” 

"Yes, mum, shall I send her to you after dinner? 
And Miss Dolly dear, don’t be too hard on her. Jenny’s 
in trouble.” 
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‘‘Oh, no! Jenny! Johnson, how long has this 
been 

“Longer than what you’d have thought, mum. I 
didn’t know anythink myself till last week, and I hesi- 
tated to say anythink to you, ’m, because I thought the 
girl ought to speak herself, poor thing.” 

“Some blackguard of a man, I suppose?” 

“Well, yes, mum,” Johnson answered, judging the 
supposition reasonable. “Young Aggett — son of Aggett 
at Clenham, Sir Graham’s keeper.” 

“Isn’t he going to marry her?” 

“I think, ’m, he’s trying to back out. Jenny she cried 
so, I couldn’t hear all she said. But if he did. I’m 
thinking ” 

Johnson found it rather hard to say what she was 
thinking. 

“It’s the least he could do,” said Dolly. 

“Yes ’m. But — ^well’m — he’s a idle, lazy, good-for- 
nothing lad from all I hear. He’d drag her down. And 
I’ve often heard your mamma say. Miss Dolly, that she’s 
seen the likeliest girls — them as respects theirselves — 
come down to sluts from marrying lazy, bad, idle, good- 
for-nothing men. And I’ve seen it myself, mum; often, 
I have.” 

This singularly unorthodox view startled Dolly into 
an exclamation which she as abruptly checked. In 
many and various theoretical ways she was unusual, 
and she was a little prone to air her contempt for custom. 
But the sudden practical application of so outrageous a 
theory as this, coming from the lips of so staid and so 
old a retainer as Johnson — ^Johnson who had told her 
to behave as a child — was a little disconcerting. 

“Johnson!” she cried, and then stopped herself. For 
suddenly she realised the wisdom of the implied counsel. 

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A nice, bright, pretty girl would rush into marriage with 
a loafer to save her face for the moment, and she would 
be his drudge, and for ever after he would taunt her 
with the original offence. 

“Please, mum, it's true what I say," said Johnson, 
who had recognised the note of horror in the ejaculation 
of her name, and who meant to stick to her guns. 

“Yes. I do believe that it is. But there’s a great deal 
to think of. I must talk to Jenny. Yes, after dinner. 
Oh, what fools they are. There, that’ll do now, John- 
son." 

And later that evening Dolly heard the whole pitiful 
tale. She was very angry with Jenny, though she tried 
to show it as little as possible. The moral delinquency, 
which she refrained from dealing with in speaking to the 
girl, was to her a side-issue. What really troubled Dolly 
was the prospect of losing a good housemaid upon whom 
she had her eye with a view to future developments. 
Dolly thought that when the time came Jenny could be 
trained into a thoroughly good nurse. She was such 
an apple-cheeked, jolly little creature, that children could 
not help but love her. More than once already Henry 
had frowned at her when he happened to catch her sing- 
ing at her work. That did not fit in with his ideas of 
the dignity of domestic labour. But it signified a 
wholesome content. 

When Dolly came down to the hall about ten o’clock, 
she found Henry lying on the sofa, half asleep, with a 
pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He roused 
himself as she rustled over to him. 

“Hallo," he said, “wherever have you been all this 
time? I thought you were coming to play to me." 

There was a lazy good humour in his voice, and her 
intuition bade Dolly beware lest she disturbed it. 

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“So sorry, old boy. I’ll play to you now if you want 
it very badly. Come along.” 

“It’s no good now. The fire’s out in the drawing- 
room.” 

“Why didn’t you tell them to make it up?” 

“I thought you weren’t coming down and there was 
a good fire here; so I told them not to. Needless 
extravagance.” 

While he spoke Dolly had been warming her hands 
at the fire. Now she turned to him, her brows puckered 
in a frown. She felt that the difficulty of what she had 
to say had been complicated by Henry’s sense of econ- 
omy. It was better to ignore the bathos of it. 

“My dear,” she said slowly, “such a worry. What 
idiots these girls are. I’ve just been talking to Jenny.” 

“Oh — ^ah; this evening in the drive. That was Jenny, 
was it? Said she’d gone to post a letter, I suppose. 
I’m not going to have that sort of thing here, I can 
tell you. Gross insolence. Well?” 

“Oh, Henry, the poor little creature’s' going to have a 
baby.” 

Henry shifted his position slightly and stared at Dolly. 

“And that’s the dear little thing that was going to 
make such a good nurse. So you’ve sent her packing at 
once.” 

“Oh, my dear boy, no ! I couldn’t do that. The poor 
little thing’s almost dead with misery.” 

“Poor little thing! Little slut, you mean. You’d 
better tell her to get married double quick.” 

“As usual the man has loved and run away. She says 
he won’t marry her. It’s that oaf of an Aggett boy — ^the 
one who comes over with the ferrets. He ought to have 
a thorough good hiding.” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘That’s not your business. Get rid of the girl in the 
morning.” 

‘Tf I did, she’d drown herself. You know how it is 
with girls like that, and in that condition a very little 
upsets their minds altogether. She would make away 
with herself. I can’t be unkind to the child. She is only 
a child.” 

Henry continued to stare, and the blood rose in his 
face and his eyes grew small with anger. 

“If you wish to turn my house into a maternity home, 
please say so — ^please say so quite plainly. I’m utterly 
surprised at you, standing up for a girl like that. It’s 
disgusting. You encourage that sort of thing by your 
absurd treatment. You’ve no right to keep disreputable 
hussies of that type in the house a day longer than neces- 
sary. Think of what people would say of you.” 

“That is just what happens not to interest me in the 
slightest degree. Why should I turn her out like that? 
She isn’t a thief. She’s been a very good servant. I 
think she ought fo stop with us for a little while so that 
she can make some arrangement.” 

“Yes, and have her baby here, and I’ll drive over 
myself and fetch the doctor, and pay for a nurse from 
London. Very nice. You can’t be thinking what you’re 
saying. Disgusting sentiment — that’s what it is. I sup- 
pose you’ve been putting your arm round her neck. That 
would be consistent with your precious ideas. Good 
servant. Seems to me you’re doing your best to excuse 
her — her conduct. No — don’t argue about it.” 

He rose and knocked out his pipe violently against a 
fire-dog. 

“But she has been taken in. I want to be kind to her,” 
said Dolly. 

“The poor child’s always taken in. Seems to me it’s 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


you who are taken in. IPs always the brute of a man, 
isn t it ? If she had been a decent girl she would not 
have got into trouble. Don’t be afraid, she’ll not drown 
herself. Look here, Dolly, I don’t want to be hard. 
Keep her a few days if you must. But remember that 
I have every right to turn her out now at this minute — 
every right.” 

The weakness of declaiming both a right and the 
magnanimity of refraining from exercising it was not 
lost upon Dolly. She determined not to acknov/ledge the 
favour. 

‘‘The girl is quite helpless and alone. She has no 
mother. I’ll never forgive myself if I didn’t do my best 
for her.” 

‘T don’t propose to talk about it any more,” said 
Henry, reopening his book. 

Dolly suddenly felt her cheeks flaming with quick 
rage. She almost ran from the hall. 

Once in her own room, she suddenly recognised 
the fact that she had not been fighting for Jenny just 
now in the hall, but for herself. The importance of 
Jenny’s trouble in itself faded to insignificance. Merely 
it had been the occasion for emphasising a trouble of 
her own. She found herself walking across the room 
to where the top of a candlestick on the mantelshelf 
broke the line of the oval looking-glass. It had been 
moved too much to the left, when the shelf was dusted — ■ 
too near the little clock and too far from the tortoiseshell 
snuff-box. You couldn’t expect servants to have an eye 
for the minutiae of decoration. She remembered notic- 
ing the candlestick just now when she was talking to 
Jenny. She remembered thinking about the lesser de- 
linquency in the light of the girl’s trouble. And after 
Jenny had gone, crying, from the room, she had still 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


looked at the errant candlestick and now, as she looked 
again, she was reminded of what she had then been 
thinking. She had said to herself that she must tell 
Henry. She had dreaded telling him. Only now she 
was fully alive to that fact. She went over to the fire- 
place and set the candlestick right. But it had started a 
train of thought not so easily corrected. Dolly looked 
at herself in the glass. Her eyes seemed very big and 
her face unusually pale. She put her elbow on the 
mantel and her face on her hand and looked down. She 
suddenly felt shy of looking at herself in the glass. She 
was frightened 

Why had she dreaded telling Henry ? She determined 
to be honest with herself. She had known that he would 
be unsympathetic. She had guessed that he would be 
antagonistic to her point of view. She had experienced 
an unwillingness to tell him something of a compara- 
tively commonplace kind which had to be told. And 
again she had said to herself in the past that the ideal 
basis of marriage was complete sympathy and under- 
standing — ^not necessarily agreement, that was beside the 
point. But if you were to be happy, you ought to be 
able to tell your husband anything without thinking first 
of its expedience or the consequences. Dolly’s was rather 
a boyish temper of mind; she despised feline reserva- 
tions, and in the past — she admitted it to herself quite 
frankly now — 'she had wondered whether they would 
ever fall foul of each other in matters of taste. She 
had regretted that Henry was such a Philistine. She 
had imagined herself championing the cause of art. 
Never for one moment in those days had she thought 
that deeper issues would be concerned. It was not 
Henry’s tastes nor his ignorance of the things that 
pleased her that were called in question now; but his 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


disposition; and but half consciously she must have 
known for some time past where its defects lay. While 
she had first stared across the room to the candlestick, 
she had known that the genuine sorrow she felt for the 
little housemaid was nothing to the anxiety that racked 
her on her own behalf. 

Was it just an ill-tempered moment at which she had 
caught Henry? No, she could not be rid of the trouble 
as simply as that. When she came down the stairs he 
had looked at her with sleepy good nature, and if it had 
been a passing mood only how was she to account for 
her foreboding? Could she wean him from it? And 
that question brought another in hot haste upon its 
heels — could she wean him from anything? He was too 
set, too long developed. And she had prided herself 
only a little while ago that she understood him, that he 
was an open book to her and now — how much more 
was there to know? 

Dolly determined to fight it all out with herself now. 
She utterly mistrusted the policy of letting things slide. 
No harm but a little present laceration of her feelings 
could result from facing her troubles as far as she was 
aware of them. . . . 

His attitude towards money, then, was far too dis- 
tinctly emphasised. What was it he had said yester- 
day? A new dress of hers he had pronounced not bad; 
and then he had asked the cost of it. When he knew 
that, the dress became positively lovely. And this after- 
noon when she had rhapsodised about the tapestries at 
Clenham, he had declared them worth a mint of money. 
Dick had been there and had pointed at a lean and 
elongated hound with a podgy forefinger, and had tried' 
to stroke its back. “It’s not like Peggy,” he had said 
and rightly. Peggy was the favourite setter. Elsie and 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Graham were at the other end of the room at the mo- 
ment. Henry felt himself responsible. ‘‘When I was a 
little boy/’ he told Dick, “I was always told not to 
touch.” “Darling,” Dolly had said on the ride home, 
“I’m sure when you eventually climb the Golden Stairs 
you’ll wipe your feet first.” 

Henry had not been in the least amused. 

On another occasion Gerald Faucet had told them a 
story about a simple old lady who begged on behalf of 
a charity from a wealthy philanthropist. The philan- 
thropist refused her. The old lady hinted that he was 
mean. “I will show you how little I care for money,” 
said he, and wrote out a cheque for ten thousand pounds 
which he then threw into the fire. The old lady gazed 
(horror-stricken at the flames which before her very 
eyes destroyed this princely sum. (Gerald, it is to be 
feared, embellished the old story by naming the phi- 
lanthropist — a friend of his.) They had both laughed. 
Then said Henry; 

“But it is all very well; he wasted a cheque on a bit 
of fooling.” 

“Wasted!” Gerald cried out, with uplifted hands. 
“My dear Henry, to him it would not have been wasted 
if the cheque had borne a five pound stamp. I wish to 
heaven I could get so much fun from a penny.” 

“Cheques are not meant for that sort of thing,” said 
Henry. 

“If only he could see how much more important fun 
was than money,” said Dolly to herself now. 

But that must only be temporary. He was not accus- 
tomed yet to the handling of all the money he required. 
Nor was she, when it came to that, though gold did not 
glitter for her in quite the same way. Did people grow 
out of that sort of thing? It was rather to be doubted. 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


But the money question really didn’t matter. She could 
laugh at him for that. And their divergence of opinion 
in artistic ideals — or rather Henry’s indifference and her 
own eagerness — ^that didn’t so greatly matter. 

And then he was exceedingly irritable, and that didn’t 
matter either, though it was trying; and sometimes he 
was a little sulky, though not often for long. Dolly 
knew that she had a temper of her own and that some- 
times it got out of hand. She remembered many occa- 
sions when she had annoyed Henry, almost wilfully 
risking the loss of her self-control. She knew that she 
had sometimes pressed her unorthodox views on him, 
well aware that the moment was unpropitious. She was 
doing her best to find the faults in herself — faults which, 
she devoutly hoped, could be obliterated in time. 

But — what was the good of denying it? — in some 
ways Henry was rather a prig, and underlying his prig- 
gery there was just the least suspicion of cruelty, as 
there nearly always is; and — and that did matter. 

Quite suddenly Dolly sat down upon the sofa and 
bent her head upon the end of it, crying bitterly. 


177 


CHAPTER XIX 


T he plans they had made for the first Christmas of 
their married life had gone awry. In the first 
place, Henry’s sister, Evelyn, had asked them to come 
to her and they had accepted. Dolly did not in the 
least want to go, not caring very greatly for the little 
she had seen of Evelyn hitherto. But she accepted the 
convention that Christmas demands the temporary 
gathering of a clan, however unsympathetic its com- 
ponent groups. And Henry was rather nice about it, 
and left the decision to her. That was because he did 
not like his brother-in-law, James Attewell. 

Dolly’s mother and stepfather were at San Remo. 
Oliver Maitland had told Henry frankly that he was 
going to spend Christmas with his grandfather, in whose 
shoes he hoped one day comfortably to tread. 

No sooner had they settled upon this course of action 
when the Faucets suggested that they should swell the 
big party at Clenham. There was to be a proper old- 
fashioned Christmas, Graham assured them; and Dolly 
should help with the children’s party — 'which would be 
the height of bliss to her. They had to refuse, and the 
Faucets promptly filled their proposed place with an- 
other couple. They expected Michael at Evelyn’s too. 
His departure from India had been long delayed by ill- 
ness, but now he was ordered to spend the winter out 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


of England. Lastly, on the day before Christmas Eve, 
a telegram came from Evelyn announcing the sudden 
illness of her husband and putting them off. They 
themselves sent telegrams in various directions, but 
without result. Nobody but themselves seemed to be 
at a loose end, so they must perforce spend Christmas in 
each other’s sole company. 

The prospect was gloomier than it should have been 
to both of them; though neither admitted it. 

Dolly gave Henry a hunting flask which she knew, 
and a set of rare engravings which she hoped, would 
please him. 

Henry gave Dolly some sapphires, which were her 
favourite stones. 

In the morning they went to church, afterwards fore- 
gathering with the Clenham party for a few minutes 
under the lych gate. There were other neighbours there ; 
and the rector, old Doctor Thorpe, with his whiskers 
and high white stock, told them that this was the forty- 
first successive Christmas service he had taken there. 

In the afternoon they walked over to Clenham for 
tea. The Faucets had asked them in the morning to 
dinner, not knowing until then of the disruption of 
their schemes, but they knew that the party was made 
up, and they would not intrude. 

Gerald was there — a further tribute in neighbouring 
minds to the magnanimity of his brother and the con- 
ciliatory qualities of Christmastide. 

‘Tt’s a great comfort,” Gerald said to Dolly, “to think 
that their detestation of me is the occasion of their 
admiration of Graham. It shows that the flame of a 
pure and disinterested affection bums almost as brightly 
as their naughty, unchristian hate. Tell me — you see 

179 


the complete gentleman 


Mrs. Moye and other dear people round about — how 
much does Graham allow me to keep away?” 

Throughout the previous day Gerald had strolled 
about the house with a copy of Bracebridge Hall open in 
his hand, superintending the re-construction of a genuine 
Christmastide. There was some consternation because 
he would allow no holly on the tops of picture frames 
for fear of scratching the gilding. He carefully re- 
hearsed the procession to the dining-room with the boar’s 
head. There was unholy joy below stairs when he gave 
the butler a receipt of his own for the servants’ punch. 
And Dick rioted in the possession of new and luxurious 
toys. 

After tea Dolly and Henry walked home again, talk- 
ing little. 

At eight o’clock they solemnly sat down facing each 
other and tried to be jolly. 

Now they had both been brought up to regard dinner 
as the coronal of Christmas: that is to say they had 
been brought up to believe the exact opposite, in theory. 
As both of them grew towards the years of discretion, 
their respective parents had dinned half-heartedly into 
half-closed ears the inner and spiritual significance of 
the season. But dinner, presents — given and received — • 
crackers and snapdragon continued to hold the place of 
first practical importance. 

“You’re old enough to understand now: Christmas 
is a great Church festival. You’ve got that? That is 
to say, it is — ah, there’s the dinner bell.” 

Inwardly they must have been aware of the futility 
of their proceeding. And yet it could hardly have been 
otherwise. Oyster soup, turkey, chestnut stuffing, plum 
pudding, mince pies, champagne ; again chestnuts, roasted 
upon the bars of the drawing-room fire, a hot sweet 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


drink bailed out of a Worcester bowl with an old silver 
ladle, an attempt upon the part of both of them to be 
more sentimental than they really felt inclined to be, 
a determination against odds to sit up a little later than 
usual — ^they felt that it ought to have been good fun. 

For a few minutes after she had first faced the fact 
that they were to be alone, Dolly had considered the 
advisability of a besettingly usual meal and a vigorous 
attempt to ignore old ordinances. But she knew that 
this would be impossible. They had already seen a cer- 
tain amount of Christmas in full swing, so to put it; 
there was the ineradicable knowledge that it was Christ- 
mas Day; there were the servants who expected it and 
meant to have it, there were the presents. On her 
writing table upstairs there was an array of calendars 
with selected platitudes for every month. Over the fire- 
place in the hall were cards innumerable: some, good 
original drawings sent by friends; some, the new “art” 
cards with strange printing — elongated e’s and square 
o’s; some, of the full-blooded kind with garlands of 
pansies, landscapes with lighted churches and fore- 
grounds with scintillant snow which imperatively sug- 
gested Epsom salts ; some, simple and virtuous, published 
by the Religious Tract Society. 

So all things considered, when finally ordering dinner, 
Dolly came to the conclusion that it was no good blink- 
ing Christmas. They must go through with it as best 
they could. 

They drank each other’s healths, and Henry asked 
Dolly if he had told her the story of the Christmas he 
spent at Iquique. 

“No!” she lied to him. “Do tell me.” 

And he told her. It was a long story, the climax 
of which was reached when the packing-case on which 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Henry had been seated gave way under him. And Dolly 
laughed just as thoroughly as she had at the first telling. 
She then described the Christmas habits of her old 
home. 

‘T wonder how they are getting on at Clenham/’ 
said Dolly. 

“All right, if they like that sort of thing,” said Henry. 
“Personally, I don’t care about so much fuss. Much 
better to feed in peace and quietness as we’re doing.” 

Dolly said nothing to discourage this pitiful attempt 
at optimism. 

“They’re spoiling that boy Dick,” Henry went on. 
“I believe in the good old maxim — children should be 
seen and not heard. That’s how we were brought up. 
People make so much fuss nowadays about children. 
It’s a great mistake. There’ll be no holding Master 
Dick later on if Faucet’s not careful. I like to see chil- 
dren full of good spirits, but it can go too far.” 

“Poor little beggar, much better to let him have a 
good time while he can. He’ll have his trouble soon 
enough. He’s a darling too — absolutely fearless.” 

“The things children get given them nowadays! We 
didn’t get toys like that, and I bet we were just as 
happy.” 

“Possibly more. But I do like my toys.” 

Henry had already hung his engravings in his room, 
as she her sapphires about her neck. 

“I do,” repeated Dolly, tucking in her chin and look- 
ing down at them, “they’re lovely. Dear old boy, it was 
good of you.” 

Henry grinned with pleasure. He was curiously sus- 
ceptible to wine, of which he drank extremely little as 
a rule. Christmas was a great success. He was thor- 
oughly enjoying himself. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘They look awfully well on you/’ he said. “They 
ought to be good. I took Gerald’s advice. He knows 
the best places for everything.” 

The servants had left the room. Dolly came round to 
Henry and put her arm on his shoulder. 

“You old darling. You oughtn’t to have done it. 
;Wicked old scamp. You really mustn’t ruin yourself 
for me like this,” and she put her arm around his neck 
and her cheek against his head. 

Henry was profoundly happy. His grin widened and 
he patted his wife’s hand. After all, he had a little — 
very little — money of his own that he could confess to. 
That was the source of the sapphires. He had been 
as munificent as he possibly could when they were mar- 
ried. This was the first official opportunity since. To 
be given praise and thanks for what he himself had 
given was even as nice as he had imagined it would be. 
Not content, however, with what Dolly had said, he 
sought further commendation. 

“It’s only a bit of rubbish, really,” he said. “I’m 
quite a'shamed of it. You should have better things than 
that, if I — could manage it.” 

“But, dear old boy, it could not possibly be better. 
They’re exquisite — lovely, blue, winking things. How 
could it be better and just the right setting. You’ve 
got such good taste.” 

“Nonsense,” and then for the second time. “They 
ought to be good.” 

“I believe they were absolutely ruinous. Tell me — 
do.” 

“Rubbish, dear, nothing of the kind.” 

“I believe you’ve spent all your money on me. I 
insist on knowing.” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


And as she said it, she knew that she herself was in- 
sisting on her own spirit's vexation. 

Henry would tell her the price of the sapphires. He 
wanted to — that much was perfectly plain. He was 
struggling at that moment, weighing the satisfaction 
bred of her horrified knowledge against reserve that was 
in his case artificial and conventional. It was to break 
down this latter that he was asking her help. He was 
unable to refuse her gentle urging. Yet well she knew 
that she would be ashamed. 

‘‘Come on!” she said, “no secrets from your wife.” 

And he told her. 


184 


CHAPTER XX 


TTROM the time of the trouble with Jenny onwards 
there had been moments of realisation for Dolly, 
when she had gone to her own room and looked at her- 
self in the glass. Now and again she had asked herself 
courageously, ‘‘Am I happy?” Henry would sulk over 
trifles, or snub her for some allusion to the coterie which 
in his mind was ever associated with the poet Sail, or 
he would talk about money, or snarl because she failed 
to take fox-hunting as seriously as it ought to be taken. 
Once, not long after Christmas, they had quarrelled 
violently about the beating of a spaniel. Henry faith- 
fully believed in the old maxim which applies also to 
women and to walnut trees. The dog was thoroughly 
disobedient, and two young chickens had mysteriously 
expired. Henry gave him a sound thrashing. Dolly 
had been near by at the time and had begged for mercy. 
She was rather prone to make a pet of Greedy, to the 
loudly-expressed disgust of her own fox-terrier. She 
sometimes forgot that Greedy's purpose in life was 
sport. And she listened, with more attention than she 
dared admit in the neighbourhood of Needs, to the new 
talk of humanitarianism which, three years later, was 
to undergo the nitric action of the pen of George 
Steevens. She was not the sort of woman to shed 
tears upon neatly shot pheasants, but she couldn't endure 

185 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the thought of a dog in pain, and she thought that 
Henry was needlessly hard upon Greedy. There was a 
deliberation with which he had carried the poor beast 
by the scuff of the neck to the scene of the alleged mur- 
der which made her feel sick. It is probable that she 
exaggerated his cruelty: and certainly Greedy became a 
better dog thereafter; but at the time there had been 
words. 

Periodically then, Dolly would feel sudden qualms 
about their ultimate happiness. Their quarrels could 
never be described exactly as lovers’ quarrels. On cer- 
tain points she felt that they were rootedly antagonistic. 
But after a time she began to notice that it was when 
she was most idle that the horizon appeared gloomiest. 
She was of too joyous, too enthusiastic a disposition to 
dwell upon those interviews with the looking-glass. 
There was still enough to do at Needs to keep her hands 
full. There were certain things to put up with and she 
must put up with them. 

‘‘Bear and forbear” she had heard as a motto for mar- 
ried life. And that would bring her thoughts wander- 
ing round to another cause for dissatisfaction. She 
had talked to Bella Keene about it. “So far it’s all 
forbear,” she had laughed, and, not wishing Bella to 
take the word too literally and read truth between 
imaginary lines, “I want to have a baby, Bella. I want 
to have a baby.” 

“Well, my dear, be patient. You’ve not been married 
a year yet. There’s plenty of time. People are so 
different about babies. I’m not a maternity nurse, but 
I’ve heard so. A girl like you is bound to have babies.” 

Still, that was a fruitful cause of depression on the 
occasions when she summed things up to herself, par- 
ticularly as Bella had shown no inclination to prolong 
1 86 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the discussion. That, in itself, Dolly thought vaguely, 
was a bad sign. A topic must, indeed, be distasteful 
for Bella to drop it so quickly. Perhaps she was pri- 
vately convinced that Dolly was not the sort to have 
babies. Dolly wondered whether before long she would 
be driven to consult her mother, who with advancing 
years in her second marriage was growing daily more 
frivolous. 

Sometimes she would take herself to task and cry 
aloud to her image in the glass that the life’s blood of 
her happiness was upon her own head; and when she 
observed that her moods of depression followed each 
other more quickly than before, and that the effects of 
each seemed more lasting and more cumulative, she put 
it down to the time of year. They ought never to 
spend the winter in England, anyhow in the country, 
she decided. Needs was so beautiful in the summer 
that it was impossible not to be happy then. But in the 
cold and slush of winter, ‘with black trees and dismal 
winds that howled, and no garden to speak of, and only 
sport to work off your animal spirits ... no. She 
must have the sun, and colour, colour everywhere, riot- 
ous and unsubdued. The attitude which is summed up 
by ‘'only sport” was incomprehensible to Henry, and 
naturally brought derision in its train. But hunting at 
least brought Dolly into contact with the Faucets — peo- 
ple who thoroughly enjoyed all seasons of the year at 
Clenham, and winter most of all, people, however, who 
had no sort of use for foreign sunshine. And then Dolly 
would bring herself up short again. She had not been 
married a year, and she was finding her home made 
endurable by neighbours. Perhaps that was overstat- 
ing the case . . . but oh, for the spring! Still, cold 
days with their quiet and sedate appeal, tumultuous 

187 


THE COMPLETE GENTI. EMAN 


nights, brought no exuberance of joy to her. It wasn’t 
that she was unable to perceive the subtler shades of 
winter’s distances in cooler blues and yellows less in- 
tense. But she was alone. There was no one to whom 
she could express herself. To all the neighbourhood 
about her a glorious winter day was but the vehicle of 
sport; and hunters swore when the roads rang and the 
air was singing with the frost. And though Dolly’s own 
appreciations and convictions were far too strong for 
lack of sympathy to kill them, her loneliness oppressed 
her. 

Before her marriage wonderful plans had been made 
for glorious expeditions to sunny lands. Henry was 
not a good hand at arousing interest in or satisfying 
curiosity about the strange places he had seen: but he 
he had said enough to give Dolly’s imagination a good 
start. And she thought, too, of all she had read of 
vine-clad valleys and empurpled hills. She called up 
pictures in her mind of lazy travels, of riding in pic- 
turesque attire upon rough ponies from wayside inn 
to inn, of quick and jovial friendships with swarthy 
peasants and gossiping old priests, of white teeth plunged 
in juicy golden fruit, of red lips splashed with redder 
wine, of sun-baked walls and jalousied windows and 
courtyards still in violet shade. In some such scene 
as this, if only for a time of holiday, she could find 
some realisation of herself. . . . 

But Henry never made plans now. He was quite a 
good shot: he was a very good rider. And for him 
England was good enough. 


i88 


CHAPTER XXI 


I N the first week of February two things happened. 

Michael Wedlaw wrote home from Nice to say that, 
doctor or no doctor, he was coming home to get some 
clothes; and Evelyn Attewell accepted the invitation 
which had been open to her and her children ever since 
her husband died, shortly after Christmas. She had 
been looking forward, she said, to her quiet time. She 
was to stay with them for a month. Dolly, who with 
Henry had stayed for a day or two with Evelyn after 
the funeral, had to call up all her abundant reserve of 
generosity and loving-kindness before she could survey 
the prospect with equanimity. Michael was an unknown 
quantity; but he was Henry’s brother, a soldier, and a 
man. She could cope with him. Evelyn, and Evelyn’s 
children — particularly in the present case — ^would need 
an amount of handling for which her direct and, though 
she would have disclaimed it, simple nature was in no 
wise prepared. Oliver had been staying at Needs for 
the last ten days of January. The contrast would be 
painfully emphatic. 

Dolly had gathered that for some time past the pre- 
paratory school had not been a great success. This was 
no doubt due, she thought, to Attewell’s declining health 
and pathetic confidence in his wife’s management. The 
result, as Evelyn herself put it, was that she who for 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


years past had controlled an expensive and luxurious 
school, where the boys — she assured Dolly — had been 
picked and chosen with an almost merciless eye to their 
fathers' worldly standing, she herself would have to 
send her own boy, Johnny, to some barbarous academy 
in an insalubrious suburb whilst the little girls remained 
with her. 

‘Tt is not that I myself cannot give them a good edu- 
cation," she had added, ‘‘so far as books go I certainly 
can. But for the higher requirements of character- 
moulding I hold that a sound school under some woman 
of lofty ideals is absolutely essential." 

When the three children came to Needs with their 
mother, Dolly found that not only lofty ideals, but a 
peculiarly serene temper, were necessary for dealing 
with them. Johnny, the youngest, was a depressed 
little boy who spoke indistinctly for his six years, and 
who spent most of his time with a simple picture puzzle 
which gave a map of Palestine upon one side whilst the 
other illustrated in drab and uninteresting colours the 
parable of the Good Shepherd. Unfortunately the lamb 
with part of the rescuing crook fitted in the reverse into 
the place of Mount Carmel. And Johnny, with a kind 
of glum pride, would show you the map with the poor 
little animal’s head jutting into the Mediterranean. The 
two girls were aged eight and ten, Mary and Evie, re- 
spectively. Mary was peevish and greedy; Evie had a 
mixed fondness for wild flowers pressed in an out-of- 
date cookery book and English history. She spent a 
good deal of time in publicly snubbing her brother and 
sister. 

Evelyn’s quiet time, from the first moment of her 
arrival, consisted in teaching Dolly the duties of house- 
wife and prospective mother — which latter, Dolly con- 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


sidered, bordered upon the unnecessary. She learnt from 
her sister-in-law that her servants were robbing her, 
that she hadn’t the least idea of managing Henry, that 
a good deal too much money was wasted upon the stables, 
that her outer clothes were too many and her under- 
clothes too thin. 

Evelyn’s sense of bereavement seemed not unmixed 
with a kind of exasperation at the memory of her hus- 
band. She had no idea she would be left so badly off. 
The keenest edge of her mourning was blunted by re- 
sentment. Dolly thought that so vigorous and capable 
a person was well qualified to look after herself. Evelyn 
was a wholesome looking woman with a good colour 
and a natural abundance of fair hair. She was not 
beautiful and never had been. She was rather awk- 
wardly built, but exercised discretion in her apparel so 
as to conceal the fact. The white cuffs that she wore 
with her widow’s dress served to emphasise her strong 
but well-kept hands. She was several years older than 
Henry. Dolly had seen James Attewell at her marriage 
— a man of laborious probity and grave mien, whose 
ideals were fads, the scenes of whose hobbies were laid 
in the graveyard of practical endeavour ; a man without 
humour, a scholar of suppressed enthusiasms. She had 
been rather sorry for him : on the same count and in the 
same degree she now felt glad. 

One evening Evelyn was sitting in the drawing-room 
sewing. Dolly, who detested all forms of needlework, 
was idle. A little while before she had been playing a 
rhapsody of Liszt, but she found the atmosphere of 
Evelyn’s company forbidding. The air of the room 
seemed to be filled with waves of antagonism. Dolly 
found herself playing mechanically, without heart or 
pleasure. She closed the piano and came and sat oppo- 

191 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


site the elder woman by the fire. Old Doctor Thorpe 
had dined there and was now playing billiards with 
Henry. Dolly devoutly prayed that they would finish 
soon. 

“That looks very dull stuff,” she said to Evelyn. “Can 
you see well enough or shall I move the lamp? — ^hor- 
ribly dull. Do give it to one of the servants. Anne 
is quite excellent at plain sewing. She might just as 
well do it.” 

“I have no doubt that she^s insufficiently occupied. 
That any one can see. No, thank you, Dolly. I prefer to 
do my own sewing. In the past I have generally been too 
busy, but now circumstances have changed. I shall do 
everything for my children myself.” And she sighed 
deeply. “They grow out of their clothes so quickly. It 
is a great problem — dressing children now-a-days.” 

“I suppose it — always has been,” said Dolly. 

After a little while, Evelyn laid the flannel shirt that 
she was making for Johnny upon her knee, folded it, 
and ran her needle carefully into the collar — thus show- 
ing that she meant to knock off work for a time. Dolly 
leaned forward and examined it. 

“How nice and comfy and warm,” she said. “I do 
believe you've put that buttonhole on the wrong side.” 

“It’s for Johnny,” Evelyn said, with quiet triumph. 
“Male creatures always have their buttons on the right. 
One may as well do the correct thing from the begin- 
ning. They get so laughed at at school otherwise.” 

Evelyn never made mistakes of this kind, and Dolly, 
who had no real desire to crow but merely to save 
trouble, felt crushed. Evelyn’s voice so plainly indicated 
the satisfaction due to a successful retort. She was ever 
on the defensive. Dolly wondered whether it would be 
possible to make her understand that, as a guest, she 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


need have no fear. Dolly had not the slightest desire to 
prove her in the wrong. 

There was another little pause, during which Evelyn 
unfolded and folded up again the little garment. Dolly 
noticed that she shook a little, and presently a tear 
splashed down upon the grey flannel. 

She rose, battling with her wish to run from the 
room, and put her hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. She be- 
came aware that there was nothing so difficult in all 
her candid life as the expression of condolence where she 
had no genuine sympathy. But surely words were use- 
less: her sister-in-law could not expect nor require 
words. So Dolly stood there patting her arm, devoutly 
hoping that Evelyn would say something. Presently 
she did. 

‘T feel,” she cried brokenly, lifting her tear-stained 
face, ‘T feel that my life’s work has been stopped at the 
very outset. I was devoted to the school. What finer 
opportunity was possible! There they were — little lives 
under our immediate charge, souls blossoming out from 
day to day. It was our privilege, our great privilege— 
I may perhaps say mine especially — to mould these young 
characters in the pattern of all that is noblest and best 
in English manhood. The actual teaching— that was 
nothing, though poor James was an earnest scholar him- 
self and at one time secured the services of a most 
highly trained and competent staff. But it was the train- 
ing of the soul that was my special duty, the guiding 
of those little thoughts and immature energies to what 
is bright and pure and of good report. That was my 
life’s work; it was that to which I felt my true voca- 
tion.” 

She stopped to fight down her tears, her fingers pluck- 
ing at the flannel shirt. 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


A more callous woman than Dolly might have won- 
dered whether Evelyn had been quoting from the school 
prospectus, but her sincerity was obvious, and Dolly 
began to feel the sympathy which she had thought would 
never come. Having no children of her own, she was 
saved any qualms as to the possible moulding of their 
characters. If she had been a mother, the flavour of 
proselytism, so expressed, would have outraged her 
strong sense of propriety. The tigress in her would 
have immediately resented the smell of interference. As 
it was, recognising inherent enthusiasm, however much 
she disliked the manner of its declaration, she was more 
drawn to Evelyn than ever before. Here was a woman 
with an object in life and that object had been frustrated. 
Dolly was sorry for her. 

‘Toor dear,’^ she said, ^‘it is cruel.’’ 

‘T was sure you would feel for me, dear. Bless you.” 

‘‘But perhaps you will have an opportunity ” 

“Ah, opportunity ! I have : but owing to the terribly 
unfortunate state of our affairs I have been unable to 
take it. My dear friend Alice Baker is most desirous 
of starting a school for quite little boys and girls — the 
children of gentlefolk, of course. Such a noble mind, 
so keen, to use a boy’s expression. And she greatly 
wishes me to join her in partnership. Her own means 
are not sufficient, and after my poor husband’s death 
and the break-up of our little school, she hoped that I 
might be able to join her. But — alas, I cannot; though 
of course I should contribute my very valuable connec- 
tion. My slender income will only just prove sufficient 
for the children; and even then, as I have said, I fear 
they will begin life sadly handicapped.” 

“I am so sorry. It is most hard on you.” 

“And little Johnny and the girls could have been 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


under my charge and yet at school at the same time, 
and I should have known that no evil influences were at 
work near them. My poor children! What an opppr- 
tunity. It is so seldom that one gets a chance of doing 
some really good and useful work. If only more people 
in the teaching profession had a genuine call! If only 
they could realise their responsibilities! If only they 
were informed with high ideals! Ah, money! Just 
for the want of a few hundreds I am debarred from my 
life’s work.” 

Then Evelyn reverted to Miss Baker’s proposal, giv- 
ing Dolly a few more details. Her tears dried in h& 
eagerness for the hopeless educational enterprise. A 
most obvious thought struck Dolly, and her impulse 
was to give Evelyn the benefit of it forthwith. Beford 
she could speak, however, Evelyn began afresh to bewail 
the impending fate of her children; and this gave Dolly 
time to realise that she was not alone. She ought to 
Speak to Henry first. ^ 

And just at that moment Henry himself came m with 
the old rector, who despite his years had a remarkably 
true eye and had beaten Henry in two games out of 
three. 


195 


CHAPTER XXII 


T ATER, when Dolly went upstairs, her great idea 
' gained force. In the first place, she was instinc- 
tively generous; and then it seemed to her a hundred- 
fold misfortune that so much useful energy as she re- 
garded Evelyn's, should be wasted. Her previous ex- 
asperation at Evelyn's many intrusions upon her own 
affairs was entirely forgotten. Dolly allowed very little 
room in her mind for the memory of small annoyances 
or ranklings, however ample their justification. It was 
abundantly clear that Evelyn and, no doubt, the noble- 
minded Miss Baker were conscientious people who would 
do their best by the children committed to them. Now 
that she had time to think over what had been said in 
the drawing-room, Dolly rather wondered at herself. 
Evelyn had gushed, and then Dolly suddenly remembered 
that she herself belonged to the new age of tolerance, 
when people said what they meant without insincere re- 
straint. She remembered that writers and painters she 
knew were wont to voice their own enthusiasms in a 
kindred way. They were intense. Certainly they gushed 
too, though their vocations were not Evelyn's. T|he 
parallel served to strengthen the sympathy for her 
sister-in-law that Dolly had already experienced. 

Presently she heard Henry come into his dressing- 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


room next door, and called to him. She was sitting in 
a low chair, wrapped in her dressing-gown, with her 
feet on the fender. 

‘'Poor Evelyn — it is hard lines. Has she told you ?” 

“Yes. She’s very hard up. And they were making 
quite a lot at one time. James Attewell was a muddle- 
headed fellow. He ought to have made that school pay 
like a gambling den. Look here, Dolly, what do you 
say to asking Evelyn to stop on a bit?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well — ^for as long as it suits her. She’s terribly 
hard up. I always felt I ought to help her a bit, you 
know. She could have her own room, and it would be 
something for you to do. You say you’re fond of chil- 
dren. Then she’d have time to look about her and 
make plans for the future.” 

“My dear boy, you don’t mean that! Just think. 
You know as well as I do that you can’t stand the 
children. They’re not noisy, I know. I sometimes wish 
they were. But they want a lot of looking after, and 
Evelyn has been so accustomed to leaving all the hard 
work of it to other peojple. I don’t think it would do, 
really. And, besides, it never answers — having two 
families under one roof.” 

“All right, dear, all right. It was only a suggestion. 
I’m not thinking of asking her to live with us. But 
allow me to point out that I made no difficulties about 
Pearson.” 

Pearson was one of Dolly’s shameful relations whom 
she had once discussed with Bella Keene. Pearson had 
got into grave trouble from which he had been extricated 
only by the munificence of his second cousin. 

“No, dear, I know. But this is rather different.” 

“It is. Evelyn is my sister. Your cousin — ^but I 

197 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


think the less said about that the better. You don’t 
like Evelyn, that’s Avhat it is.” 

^‘No, it’s not that — only we haven’t a great deal in 
common.” 

‘^Great deal in common! I’m sick of that, Dolly. 
Whenever you dislike anybody it’s always — ^nothing in 
common with them. What about Graham Faucet and 
his wife? You’re certainly very little in common there — 
and you like them.” 

‘"Oh, my dear, what nonsense you talk. They’re sucH 
dears, how can I help loving them?” And even as she 
said it, she saw the absurdity of her mistake. 

“I see, and my sister doesn’t come under that head.” 
Henry was always quick to take a cheap advantage. 
'‘She’s not good enough for you.” 

Henry was standing with his back to the fire. Dolly 
looked up at him, hoping to read some contradiction of 
his tone, but his face was in shadow. She determined 
to keep her temper. 

“Really, my dear, that is rather unnecessary, isn’t it? 
But I wanted to tell you. I had an idea about Evelyn 
just now.” 

“I don’t think there’s the least use in our discussing 
Evelyn.” 

“Do listen, Henry.” 

She had been looking forward to telling him of her 
great idea. She thought he would be so pleased. And 
now he was killing all the joy of it. She now found it 
physically difficult to get the words out of her mouth. 

“I expect it was her husband — indeed, you’ve said so 
yourself — who made that school fail. But Evelyn’s very 
capable. She has a great friend who wants to start 
another school — a sort of rather swagger kindergarten. 
This Miss Baker can provide most of the capital, but 
198 


the complete gentleman 


not quite enough, and she wants Evelyn to join her as 
a partner. I thought I could lend it.’’ Then, as an 
afterthought for Henry’s special benefit — 'It’s sure to 
be a success.” 

Henry had turned round and was now staring, as he 
always did when anger mingled with astonishment. 

"Preposterous! Do you know what it means? You 
throw your money away upon this ridiculous school. 
You never see a penny of it again. It would be just the 
same story as before.” 

"It isn’t such a great deal of money after all,” and 
she gave details. 

"It’s outrageous. You — you haven’t mentioned this 
to Evelyn?” 

"No. I waited to tell you first.” 

Henry’s relief brought back a measure of good hu- 
mour. 

"Well,” he said, "regarded as an investment I can’t 
say that I care about it.” 

"But, good Heavens, I never regarded it as an invest- 
ment. The idea of such a thing I” 

"How did you regard it, then?” asked Henry ironi- 
cally. 

"Why, to help Evelyn, of course.” 

It came to her then that Henry did not relish this 
disposal of her money on his own account. It was rather 
difficult to avoid that conclusion. But never for a mo- 
ment did it occur to her to assert her own right, to 
think of her money as her own to do with what she 
chose, without reference to Henry. And that was just 
where he most grossly misjudged her. 

"It would be a thousand pities if this scheme with her 
friend fell through. That’s why I’m doing it.” 

"Only you’re not.” Henry felt himself in the wrong 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


and was angry. ‘‘Do you think she^s like a remittance 
man to whom you pay so much money to keep away?’’ 

“Do be reasonable. My feeling is that Tve got a 
certain amount of money to spare and she hasn’t, 
and ” 

“Yes — we know that you’ve got money.” And just 
as in the little top room in Duke Street on the night of 
Oliver’s return, so now, he laughed. Still laughing and 
without another word he went back to his dressing- 
room. 


200 


CHAPTER XXIII 


'C' VELYN’S project and Dolly’s solution of her diffi- 
culties were not mentioned for the next few days. 
Dolly had no intention of becoming a martyr in her 
sister-in-law’s cause, and with her experience of Henry 
and knowing his temper of mind with regard to it she 
held her peace. She well knew that any insistence upon 
her part would end in some exceedingly frank and woe- 
ful interrogations in the looking-glass. It was quite 
enough to know for certain what Henry’s attitude was. 
To put it further to the proof were waste of tears. 

Then after a lull of false security, Evelyn quite sud- 
denly began talking of her unavailable opportunity to 
Henry. It was a Sunday and they were walking home 
from church. Dolly was not with them. 

'T was telling Dolly the other day,” she said, “what 
a disappointment I’ve had. I don’t know if she told 
you.” This was a question, but Henry ignored it. 

“It seems — it seems almost more than one can bear 
sometimes. At the time that poor James was taken from 
me, I was upheld by the thought that I could at least 
carry on the work to which his life had been given. I 
was comforted by the certainty of my true vocation. 
But — ah! what use is it to talk? You know how badly 
off I was left.” 

Henry was trapped. There was no possibility of run- 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


ning away or of drawing Evelyn from whatever intention 
animated her. He tried to look as unconcerned as he 
could. 

''Yes, I know. It’s very hard luck. Still, you’ve 
always got the children. Plenty to keep you occupied.” 

That gave her an opening for the terrible lot that 
would befall them. They would have to be dragged up 
in third-rate schools. Thence to the first-rate school 
which her circumstances prevented’ her from initiating 
with Miss Baker, was an obvious step. She went over 
her crescendo of lamentations just as she had done to 
Dolly. "I have given up all hope of realising my ambi- 
tion now,” she sighed. 

"Much better not saddle yourself with further re- 
sponsibility,” said Henry. "I should have thought your 
past experience would have — made you want a rest,” 
he finished weakly, checking himself from saying — 
"would have sickened you.” 

"Ah, but poor James was so unpractical. He was so 
unworldly. He had the loftiest ideas, but the business 
side of school management . . . now I flatter myself 
that if I could have full responsibility I could make 
success certain. James was always thinking of me. He 
always wanted to save me trouble and anxiety. He 
wouldn’t allow me to do my share as a real helpmate.” 

"Well, as I said before, you can concentrate your 
energies on the children. Ah, there’s the house, stand 
here. You can just see the roof between those two 
trees.” 

After this Evelyn did not open the subject again. It 
may be that she had guessed the trouble that had arisen 
on her account, or she may have considered a waiting 
game likelier to be of ultimate profit. She was no longer 
sorrowful, but took up again the aggressive side of her 
202 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


character, stitched industriously, gave wordy lessons to 
her children, and tried with laughably little hope of 
success to combat Henry’s prejudice against foreign 
missions. 

On one occasion she found him at his old place by the 
orchard gate. It was a tumultuous day, on which the 
bare trees bowed before the wind, and darkling clouds 
came racing up the sky. The sodden fields were coldly 
green and distant hedgerows looked hard and clear — 
foreshortened lines of bluish brown. Wild winds had 
blown away the rain, but rain was ready to return. 

Henry had stood there for several minutes, fascinated 
and forgetful. Gently his sister came up behind him 
and put her hand upon his arm. 

‘^Thinking, Henry?” she asked. ‘What a wind! And 
yet it is just one of Nature’s economies.” 

Henry turned upon her with momentarily unrecog- 
nising eye. Then he glared, and began to talk of 
crocuses. 

Michael arrived at Needs when his sister had been 
there a fortnight. He had spent a week in London, 
had interviewed his lawyer and had arranged for the 
re-letting of his house and land. Already he was be- 
ginning to fidget. He would spend a few days at Needs, 
return to London for the final trying on of the clothes 
he had ordered and go back forthwith to the south of 
France. To Dolly he was a mystery. Like Henry he 
was quite without ambition. He had left the Army. 
He seemed to have nothing to do. Evidently he had 
few friends. During the time he was with them his 
greatest enthusiasm was given to Henry’s home-made 
trouser-press, about which he was never tired of talk- 
ing. In his opinion it kept trousers in better plight than 
any he had ever seen. He took scrupulous measure- 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


ments and made detailed drawings in order to have the 
thing reproduced. 

Michael was a big, sombre-looking man, rather ugly — 
very little like Henry either in face or figure. He wore 
his black hair much longer than his brother thought at 
all decent, particularly in a soldier. He was lantern- 
jawed and had grave, weary eyes. He looked delicate, 
and it was understood that he would never again be the 
man he was before his wounds and subsequent illness. 
His nerves were on edge. He was a very disappointing 
talker. He was shy of describing the part he had played 
in the frontier campaign. Henry found him even more 
aggravating in this respect than Oliver after the earth- 
quake at Santa Maria. 

Much against his will he found himself monopolised 
by Evelyn. In some rounded and carbolised corner of 
her hygienic mind she had decided that what Michael 
mainly required was fresh air and exercise, and as his 
leg was still too weak to allow him to ride, she took 
him out for long walks. They would set out in all 
weathers after luncheon and come home late for tea, 
and Michael would try to dissemble his lameness and 
turn apologetic eyes, like a spaniel’s, on Dolly when she 
ordered a fresh pot. 

From one of these expeditions Evelyn returned in a 
condition which for her drew nigh to jubilation. 

‘‘Where’s Henry ?” she asked almost vivaciously as 
she came into the hall. “Dolly dear. I’ve got something 
to tell you both — it must be together. Henry!” 

“Hullo^ — hullo! What is it?” called Henry from his 
own room, whither he had just gone to write a letter 
two minutes before post time. 

“Do come here a moment ; I’ve got something to tell 
you.” 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


An unintelligible grumble preceded Henry as he 
emerged. 

Michael lingered in the outer hall hanging up his coat 
and cleaning the mud from his boots. 

“I simply had to tell you together/' cried Evelyn 
triumphantly. “That dear old Michael — guess what he’s 
done ! Guess !” 

“I can’t,” said Dolly. 

“Given a subscription for the society for the propaga- 
tion ” began Henry. 

“Silly! You can’t guess. I’ll tell you. He’s going 
to lend me the capital to join Alice Baker in the school ! 
Isn’t it dear of him? Of course I shall pay him back 
before long. But I do think it’s good of him, dear old 
boy,” she added as Michael, unable to justify his further 
procrastination in the outer hall, came in looking rather 
more glum than usual. 

Henry offered his congratulations and avoided Dolly’s 
eye. 

“Hope you’ll see your money again,” he said to 
Michael. 

“You’ve no faith, Henry,” said his sister. 

“I’m sure it will be a great success,” said Dolly. “And 
now you will be able to have the children with you.” 

The next morning, when Dolly was in her sitting- 
room, a very gentle tap came at the door, and Michael, 
with a kind of ponderous timidity, came quietly in. He 
had a large book about Uganda under his arm. 

“I say,” he almost whispered, “do you mind my being 
here for a bit ? Henry’s ridden off somewhere or other 
and — and I want to be quiet. I won’t talk and bother 
you,” and then with wistful and surprising humour in 
his eyes, he added, “Evelyn’s looking for me. One of 
the servants told me.” 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Dolly kept a meaning silence for a moment as she went 
to the door and looked out as one sheltering an escaped 
convict. She liked Michael. 

“Coast’s clear so far,” she said. ‘'She hasn’t taken 
to coming in here in the mornings yet, but I daily expect 
it. Poor old Michael.” 

“She always comes for me when I’ve just settled down 
with a book. I say, you’re a good sort, Dolly — devilish 
good sort. It was bad enough before, but since I’ve 
promised to help about that school, she won’t leave me 
alone.” 

“It is generous of you, Michael. It has made her so 
happy.” 

Nothing would have made Dolly admit to him that she 
had proposed to do the same thing. But she suddenly 
felt she would dearly like him to know. She felt ashamed. 
Michael must be perfectly well aware that she could have 
afforded help to Evelyn, and he must believe her mean. 
Dolly surmised the strong probability of Evelyn’s telling 
him of the failure of her hints, though she did not know 
of the attempt on Henry. As a rule she cared little 
about the commendation or obloquy of other people ; but 
Michael had done what she had wished to do and yet 
banded himself with her in a frightened conspiracy 
against Evelyn ; and she liked him for his gentle manners 
and quiet ways. She wished she could let him know 
without disloyalty to Henry. 

“Yes,” she said, “it is good of you.” 

“Anything for peace, that’s how it strikes me. You 
know, Dolly, you’re a good sort. You understand a 
fellow. Truth is — Evelyn gets on my nerves. She can’t 
leave you alone. I wish I could have been alone with 
you and old Henry. You know what I mean — I do. 
Don’t think me ungrateful.” 

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‘‘Of course I don’t. But what a shame it is. You’re 
ill. You mustn’t be worried. I must try to do something. 
If I dropped a very gentle hint ” 

“She wouldn’t see it. She’s always been the same 
more or less since she was a child. No, no. I must 
grin and bear it. She has no perception, as my mother 
used to say.” 

“My mother says that too, so there are two of us.” 

“Michael — Mich — ael !” came a voice from the garden 
below. 

And Michael, for the first time during his visit, began, 
without noise but with much enjoyment, to laugh. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


O F the inconsiderable list of places, people and things 
which Graham Faucet and his wife sincerely 
loathed, London, in capital letters, was the head. But 
the annual visit was a kind of duty that they owed — 
whether to London or themselves was never quite plain 
— and duties were never shirked. In the early weeks 
of each succeeding season they would stay for a fortnight 
or possibly three weeks at Garlant’s. There were friends 
and relations to dine with, and there were some theatres ; 
for Elsie — ^shops, a dog show, a ball or two, and Tatter- 
salFs; for Graham there was the dentist who yearly 
complimented him on his excellent set of teeth and rarely 
found anything to do, a little business to transact, a club 
where he met old Oxford friends — ^and Tattersalhs. It 
was a great wrench to come away from Clenham for so 
long a time, but on the whole it was good fun. They 
would spend a great deal of money, and throughout their 
exile would look forward to their return, and then sweet 
home would be all the sweeter. And safely back at 
Clenham, of whatever food was first put before him 
Graham would say : “They can’t give it you like this in 
London.” And Elsie, at the window, would breathe 
deeply, and exclaim : “There’s no air like it.” 

The present, however, was distinguished from all pre- 
vious occasions. There was a fresh interest, a new pleas- 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


ure. For three days, Dick had come with his nurse to 
join his mother and father. Really, they decided, he 
was quite big enough now — being quite unlike all other 
little boys — much in advance of his age. He should 
have a great treat. 

Dick and his mother stood now upon the doorstep of 
Gerald’s house, while to the cabman who had brought 
them Graham gave expert counsel about navicular. 

“Now, darling,” said Elsie, “remember — you mustn’t 
touch. If you’re a good boy you’ll see all sorts of pretty 
things.” 

“Will Uncle Gerald show me the funny guns?” 

An appreciation of Gerald’s collection extended even 
to his family. 

“Yes, I’m sure he will, if you ask him very nicely.” 

There were three lasting impressions connected with 
these three days in London upon Dick’s mind: tea in a 
shop, St. Pancras station, and his visit to Uncle Gerald. 
Westminster Abbey, a glimpse of Queen Victoria, and 
the purchase (with his own money in his own hand) of a 
woolly birthday present for his little sister soon faded 
in the mist of forgotten trivialities. 

Besides affection and a slight disapprobation there was 
mingled in Graham’s and Elsie’s feeling for Gerald a 
certain degree of wholesome fear. They could never 
quite bring themselves to believe that he — so very much 
unmarried — was as fond of children as he said he was. 
They feared all his precious belongings and his fussiness. 
Graham, too, was accustomed to the diligent care of beau- 
tiful things, but being the elder son he took them more 
for granted; his life ran upon broader lines. Almost 
from boyhood he had looked after the estate, the gardens, 
the tapestries, the china, the furniture, the pictures, with 
a steady eye. Gerald possessed his soul’s needs with 

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far less patience. Elsie had asked him the previous night 
whether he was quite sure that they didn’t mind their 
bringing Dick. And Gerald was quite sure. He was 
exceedingly fond of his nephew. He did not understand 
this diffidence. He supposed that Elsie was afraid of 
his being rough with Dick. And he was looking for- 
ward to playing with him on the floor. 

Elsie was further urging the necessity for passive and 
refraining admiration when the door opened. 

In the event the moral was rather undermined by 
Gerald’s unearthing of a flint-lock pistol which Dick 
might touch, and which in fact he was invited to play 
with. 

‘*So long as he doesn’t point it at anybody,” his father 
added. ‘‘Never can teach ’em too young. Never mind 
whether it’s loaded or not. It’s the principle that’s the 
thing. I can never forget what happened to poor Childers 
— ^you wouldn’t remember him, Gerald.” 

Graham always talked to his brother as though twenty 
and not three years divided them. 

“I think I shall get married,” said Gerald, “just to 
have a woman to pour out tea for me — not that all 
women do it like you, Elsie. Graham, you unappre- 
ciative beggar, observe her. It’s an abiding pleasure 
to watch Elsie with a tea-pot. She combines a practised 
skill with a leisured and dignified performance.” 

“There, you can’t make pretty speeches like that,” said 
Lady Faucet. 

“Oh, yes, I can,” Graham replied. 

“Hark at him! What’s her name? Is she pretty?”* 

“You’re not to squabble in here, please,” put in Gerald, 
“you might break something. Dick, these are chocolate 
biscuits. Allow me to recommend them. I should take 
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two if I were you, one for either hand. Alternate bites. 
Like that.” And he showed him how. 

They were having tea in Gerald’s workroom, and Dick 
was perched on the two scarlet cushions in a high oak 
chair. 

'‘Don’t tell me I’m leading him astray. It isn’t often 
I have my fat nephew to play with.” 

"No — not two, darling. Uncle Gerald was only jok- 
ing. What a lot of papers and books there are about. 
Is this your great work on Charles the Second?” 

"Some of it.” 

"Aren’t there a lot of books about him?” 

"Yes. But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t write 
mine. In fact in this case it’s a particularly good reason 
why I should.” 

They were very pleased with Gerald for his sudden 
determination to write a book. It would keep him out of 
mischief at all events for a time. It was not like real 
work, of course, but it was several degrees better than 
sheer idling. 

"And do you still find your cement works well ?” asked 
Elsie. 

"Oh, yes. This Novo-Tenax that everybody’s talking 
about just now is precisely the same. Either someone 
has hit on the same idea — which is just possible^ — or else 
they’ve sneaked it.” 

"I was going to say ” 

"I was bragging some time back that money could be 
made of the stuff and wasn’t going to be. Graham, I’ve 
got something fresh for you to see.” And Gerald went 
to his corner cupboard and returned with a dagger, the 
hilt of which was of pierced and engraved steel. "It 
wants a bit of rubbing up, and then, I think, it’ll take 
some beating. Dolly Wedlaw saw it lying about in a little 

2II 


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shop in Utchester some time back and told me. I asked 
her to get it. I knew you were too busy.'’ 

‘Ts she one of your agents?" asked Elsie. ‘‘But 
seriously, I wanted to ask you. What do you think of — 
Needs?" 

She looked at her husband, who looked back and nod- 
ded. They detested talking of people behind their backs, 
and required each other's support. 

“Yes,” said Graham, “what do you think of ’em?" 

Gerald put away the dagger out of Dick’s reach, seeing 
that it was likely to take his attention from the chocolate 
biscuits, and then turned in his sudden, disconcerting 
way upon his brother. 

“I suppose I know what you mean," he said. “I 
haven’t seen much of them lately. I hope to go down 
there later on, though. Um — well! I don’t know. I'm 
sure. It may be imagination — ^but it's struck you too, has 
it?" 

“Oh, Gerald, of course it has," said Elsie compassion- 
ately. “I can’t think what it can be. Dolly looks per- 
fectly wretched sometimes. It’s so sad. I did think that 
was going to be a happy marriage. And they’re both 
such dears." 

“How does Henry strike you?" 

“He’s all right,” said Graham. “But he hasn’t enough 
to do. That’s what’s the matter with him." 

“I’m sure it is," said Elsie. “I’m afraid — I’m driven 
to believe that they’re not very well suited to one 
another." 

A more perfectly happy marriage than theirs had never 
been celebrated on each recurring anniversary. Their 
concern now was obvious. Gerald loved them for it. 

“Oh, well, you’re a married couple," and Gerald put 
his head on one side and stroked his bald patch. “You 
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ought to know about these things. But they’ve not had 
very long to shake down in yet, have they?” 

“Of course, we may be mistaken, but I think their 
interests are rather wide apart. Just to give you an 
instance, Dolly comes out hunting pretty regularly. She 
rides well too. But you can see she isn’t really keen. 
While Henry ” 

“And Henry isn’t either,” Graham put in. “You’re 
not as old as me, my dear. You haven’t seen so much 
of it. Henry Wedlaw’s not what I call mad bitten with 
anything.” 

“Well, as to hunting,” said Gerald, “you take me out 
of my depth, but as to the general statement you’re prob- 
ably quite right — with one exception. You know what 
that is.” 

“No — what?” Elsie asked. 

“Observant young woman ! Money — money — money ! 
He was keen enough about that for years, as I know very 
well. And now he’s got it, with the usual result. He 
devoted himself entirely to getting money without work- 
ing for it, and now he’s got nothing left to devote him- 
self to.” 

“Do you think he married my dear Dolly for her 
money then?” 

Gerald, with one hand on Dick’s curly head, looked at 
her with a pursed up mouth. 

“This is a very unprofitable conversation,” he said. 
“We can’t do anything. I expect things will turn out all 
right. Wait till they’ve got some children.” 

“Ah,” said Elsie, with a shake of her head, and then — 
“Fancy your thinking of that !” 

“Fancy your thinking of tha-at!” repeated Dick with 
a chuckle, copying his mother. 

This drew forth their threefold admiration, besides 

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calling attention to the stupidity of talking before chil- 
dren. 

“It’s dreadful, you know,” said Elsie; “he remembers 
everything. Drink up your milk, there’s a darling.” 

It was a few days after this that Gerald walked to- 
wards his club with Oliver Maitland. The latter had 
spent the winter in Egypt, and had recently come home 
from Paris. He was not staying with Gerald on this oc- 
casion, and seemed more frankly prosperous than usual. 

Gerald felt that he had rather lost touch with him. 
Oliver had acquired so many new interests and new im- 
portant friends with whom he showed himself, in talk, 
upon terms of considerable intimacy. Gerald found him 
just a trifle patronising in his manner. 

“I thought you were going into Parliament,” he said. 
“There was something said about it last year when you 
were staying at Needs.” 

“No, I got sick of the notion. I want to knock about 
and do a few more things before I settle down to that. 
Did you see my book showing up the West Indian 
question?” 

“Yes — ^you sent it me.” 

“Oh, did I? I’d forgotten. Quite a fluttering in the 
dovecot, it created, I can tell you. I had an exceedingly 
nice letter from Farquharson about it. And coming from 
him as an old Colonial Secretary, I thought it rather 
cheering.” 

“Very. Congratulate you. It’s no good my saying 
anything, I don’t pretend to know anything of the West 
Indies.” 

It was no good his saying anything, because he hadn’t 
pretended, after a page or two, to read the book. Oliver 
might be a great hand at facts, ponderously and plati- 
tudinously asserted, but he was not an enlivening author, 
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either for the general public or that part of it, which, as 
in the case of Gerald, was rather particular. 

‘‘YouVe going down to Clenham before long, aren’t 
you?” he asked. ‘"Graham told me you were.” 

“Yes,” said Oliver. “They were kind enough to ask 
me to speak at their Primrose League meeting later on. 
You be there?” 

“No, I’m to be in Norfolk. What are you stopping 
here for? What is it you want? — a straw hat? My 
dear man, you can’t get it here. Further down, please. 
I’ll take you to the man.” 

“Oh, very well,” said Oliver sulkily. He was exceed- 
ingly jealous of Gerald’s unerring knowledge of the one 
man for every separate thing it was possible to buy. 
Gerald, he found, never saved himself trouble by going 
to stores, and never obtained things in a cheap way by 
knowing somebody who knew somebody else in the trade. 
Both Oliver and Henry had secretly admired their 
friend’s knack of getting everything he required, from 
neckties to soap, in the most costly and leisurely manner 
from specialists. 

“See anything of Henry now?” Oliver asked, as soon 
as the straw hat had been ordered. 

“Not very lately. Have you?” 

“No. You know, Gerald, as man to man, marriage 
hasn’t improved him.” 

“Hasn’t it? Why should it?” 

Oliver was very interested in the improvement of peo- 
ple. He looked to every step in a man’s life, from school 
to marriage, as an active agent in this respect. 

“Well, I must say I’m very sorry for poor little Dolly.” 

Gerald knew that Oliver was confirmed in his habit of 
being sorry for other people’s wives, and had never paid 
much attention until now. But this was a little too much. 

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Poor little Dolly! The tone in which he said it was 
peculiarly impertinent. And to Gerald, so soon after his 
talk with Elsie and Graham, who viewed the same ques- 
tion from so widely different an angle, Oliver’s implied 
censure of Henry came with a shock. Gerald was dis- 
turbed to find his friends’ affairs of so common an in- 
terest. He was annoyed, besides, at Oliver’s assumption 
of intimacy. Dolly, indeed! 

*T don’t quite know what you’re driving at,” he said, 
'‘but you’ve no right to say that.” 

“I haven’t said anything, except that I’m sorry for 
Dolly. So I am. Henry doesn’t know when he’s well 
off. He’s always snapping at her about something. You 
can easily see she’s not happy. Also he bores her to 
tears. He’s an ass in some ways — fearful ass. He’s not 
a bit interested in the things Dolly likes and doesn’t try 
to be.” 

“You must have seen him in a peevish mood. Also 
you don’t in the least know what you’re talking about. 
You’re quite mistaken. They’re very good friends in- 
deed. And in any case, Oliver, it’s no business of yours 
or mine.” 

“Or mine.” Gerald regretted the irrelevance as soon 
as he had uttered it. It was a little weak effort to let 
Oliver down gently and not to hurt his susceptibilities. 

“In any case” — Oliver recognised the qualification at 
once, and looked hard at Gerald, who frowned, and kept 
his eyes before him. Oliver smiled slightly. Gerald 
knew as well as he — anyone who wasn’t a born fool must 
— that something was wrong at Needs. 

“He’s going to the Rockies soon with his brother,” 
said Oliver, “to try and get some bears. Good fun too. 
Perhaps absence will ” 

“Perhaps it will. And when you’ve quite done dis- 
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secting Henry and his affairs behind his back/' Gerald 
added quickly, ‘Ve’ll go in here and have some whim- 
sical drinks/' 

‘‘Certainly. I want to talk to you about my scheme 
for reviving the West Indian sugar trade." 

Just as they were about to turn into the club they 
passed close to a pretty little woman with bright golden 
hair who was coming from the opposite direction. It was 
Gerald's turn now to observe that his companion looked 
straight ahead, for he saw the woman make a hesitating 
movement to greet him, though without a smile, check 
herself and go on again. Gerald then noticed the change 
in her expression. He half turned his head as they 
went up the steps of the club. 

“I know that woman's face — who is she?" he said. 

“What woman?" 

“Why, I know — it's Mrs. Linelly. Never met her my- 
self — ^but surely you know her. I've heard you speak 
of her." 

“Linelly — Linelly — no : I don't think I do." 

Oliver was still looking straight in front of him, but 
so absently that he walked straight into another man who 
was going out of the club at that moment. He apologised 
rather more profusely than was natural for him, and that 
also was not lost upon Gerald. 


217 


CHAPTER XXV 


F or half an hour one evening Dolly found herself 
completely idle, listless, and with nothing to occupy 
herself. It was raining heavily: it was not time yet to 
dress for dinner: she was not in the middle of an inter- 
esting book : she did not feel inclined to play. On the hall 
table lay the Utchester Parish Magazine, to which, with- 
out quite knowing how, she had promised to subscribe. 
She picked it up in the first instance because its rather 
crude pink cover lay in annoying proximity to a pale 
green bowl of lavender. Then she sat down and found 
that it was still in her hand. So she began to read 
the advertisements. Somebody and Son — the name had 
been torn out by Henry in search of a pipelighter — of 
23, Victoria Grove, were high-class purveyors, and it ap- 
peared that pickled ox-tongues were their specialite. Mr. 
Jones, on the other hand, was an outfitter and clothier, 
who solicited a trial order, guaranteed satisfaction, and 
intimated that his specialite was gents’ suits to measure 
from 25s. Mr. Ganny also solicited a trial order. He 
was a draper and furnisher. Like everybody else his 
were reliable goods at lowest prices, and being eaten up 
with insular prejudice, tailoring was his mere speciality. 

Dolly turned over the page and plunged into Canon 
Moye’s monthly letter to his flock. 

. . Through the bountiful munificence of Sir Nos- 
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sington Clarke the remaining debt that had had for some 
years past such a serious claim upon our Parish Church 
Improvement Fund has now been liquidated. I feel that 
that is a blessing for which we should all be deeply thank- 
ful. I find it difficult to adequately express the feeling 
of profound thankfulness which we all owe to Sir N. 
Clarke for his timely generosity. ... The Festival of 
the Mothers* Union was held on May igth at Pulsford 
under the happiest auspices, vis., a sunny day, a hearty 
welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Rowlandson-Quake, and 
a gathering 0/410 members. We commenced with Even- 
song. . . . After the service the party adjourned to an 
excellent tea for which we have to gratefully acknowledge 
the services of Mrs. Rowlandson-Quake, Miss Elstree, 
and a Committee of the Pulsford Branch. ...” 

“Clarke must have given something like two thousand 
odd,” thought Dolly to herself, “and his sister, who mar- 
ried on her own hook, couldn’t afford a proper monthly 
nurse.” ' 

Just then Henry came in. 

“You know when you were driving back from the 
Gordons’ on Sunday?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“Mrs. Moye saw you. I saw her in Utchester this 
morning.” 

“Did I cut her? I never saw her. How horribly rude 
she must have thought me.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t that. But she saw your tennis-racket. 
I do wish you’d be more careful. She was horrified.” 

“Oh, Lord!” and Dolly lay back in her chair and 
laughed. “Poor old thing! Did she predict eternal 
damnation for me? Such a terrible example for the 
village boys who loaf about all Sunday.” 


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“Her husband was an old friend of my mother’s. It 
was very unpleasant for me.” 

“Well, what about it? Am I to stop playing tennis on 
Sunday because it horrifies Mrs. Moye? I certainly shall 
not.” 

“Don’t be absurd. But you needn’t parade it. Another 
time shove your racket under the seat.” 

“How disgusting! So I am to play mean humbug- 
ging tricks in order that I may not be disapproved of by 
a bumpkin of a parson’s wife, without an idea in her 
head.” 

“You’ve no business to speak of her like that.” 

“I can’t help it, Henry. It’s no good — I do detest 
that sort of thing so. That’s the country all over. You 
mustn’t do this and you mustn’t say that in the perpetual 
fear that some parson or parson’s wife or parson’s 
daughter will not regard it as quite the thing. You’re 
not allowed to think. You’re not allowed to have an 
idea. You have to order your whole life according to 
the stuffy principles of a few mediocre turnip growers 
and a multitude of third-rate professional moralists.” 

“All right, don’t get angry, Dolly. I quite admit 
they’re very narrow-minded, but otherwise they’re good 
souls, you know, and after all one’s got to live among 
them.” 

“But is the mud never to be stirred up? Good Heavens, 
but I am angry. Why, do you suppose in London your 
next-door neighbour knows or cares how you spend Sun- 
day afternoons?” 

“Ah, well of course, London’s different.” 

“Now, I wonder how you discovered that. Looks to 
me like original research, Henry.” 

The Spring, so eagerly awaited by Dolly, had come in 
a pale blaze of daffodils and gone. Again and again she 
220 


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had said to herself that in the sunshine all was well. For 
a long time past she had grown tired of honesty with her- 
self and for weeks she had refused to consult the look- 
ing-glass in her own room. The winter’s own self had 
been the cause of her depression, and the chanageable 
weather in the spring together with a prolonged cold. 
Now that midsummer was past it was the intolerable 
stupidity, the benumbing dulness, the drowsy compla- 
cence of her neighbours. It was not Henry. It was not 
Henry. She would clench her hands and say it to herself. 
She would be perfectly happy if only she could sometimes 
talk to people who thought for themselves and were not 
content with what had been thought out for them. It 
wasn’t that she wanted tiresome people, literary people, 
painters. She merely wanted people with the power of 
talking. It was nice to have Bella to stay or Gerald or 
Oliver Maitland. But it was only an occasional glimpse. 
And one solitary mind akin was not enough: and the 
solitary mind was liable, moreover, to absorb some of 
the superfluous torpor of the countryside. Dolly passion- 
ately longed once more to feel the galvanic influence of 
minds in conflict, the radiating force from a circle of folk 
who really thought and made things, with herself in the 
centre, charged and glowing, excited, stimulated, on 
fire, alive. 

She had made a list of astonishing things said to her 
within the last few days. ... of the new curate. “No, 
he wasn’t at Oxford or Cambridge. But we have no 
doubt that he’s a very good man.” 

Of Lady Faucet, “Mother says she was quite fast be- 
fore she married.” 

‘‘He danced six times with Molly Scott. Maisie 
counted them; so it must be right.” 

“Of course, she’s very good-natured. She means to 

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be kind. But my dear — such shocking style. Before she 
married, she was an absolute nobody. Her father. . . 

'‘We don’t think school has at all improved Ted.” 

“You can do so much good with wealth, can you not?” 
More and more Dolly had learned to depend upon Bella 
Keene and Oliver as people who did not say things like 
that. 

Dolly had been unable to discover one single person 
within a radius of twenty miles who could talk, so to say, 
for five consecutive minutes outside their parish : not one 
who could see more than one side to any question, 
whether of religion, politics, or of social amenities : not 
one even who could argue for the reality of country life 
and the tabid artifice of urban civilization. 

And that Parish Magazine. That was the epitome of 
it all. She was one of Canon Moye’s dear sisters. . . . 

One afternoon when they were having tea by the win- 
dow in the hall, Dolly, whose courage had waned during 
the last year, was seized with daring resolve. The mo- 
ment was as good as another and better indeed, for 
Henry had just beaten her at croquet. 

“I was thinking,” she said, “I’ve not seen any of my 
old friends for a long time and I think one needs a little 
waking up down here ” 

“Want to go to London again? You were up there 
only last month.” 

“I know — for two days: and I was busy shopping 
the whole time and that’s just a sort of thimbleful of 
soup to a starving man. I’d like to have a little house 
of our own, where we could pop up whenever we felt 
inclined and have a few people to dinner occasionally. 
I shall be so lonely down here if you’re away for long.” 

“Oh, and have a villa in Sicily and a nice little place 
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of not more than ten thousand acres in Scotland and a 
yacht and — ^ ” 

“There’s no need to say all that.” 

“Well, you can’t have a house in London for nothing, 
you know.” 

“I don’t want a big house : and I certainly don’t want 
one in Mayfair. I want to be among people who do 
things and somewhere where organs and street music are 
not prohibited. Some little backwater of Kensington or 
St. John’s Wood, I thought.” 

She could not have been expected to know the signifi- 
cance of her latter suggestion for Henry, who was 
actually self-conscious still about the detested neighbour- 
hood. But quite apart from this secret shame he was 
enraged at her point of view. 

“Go and live in Bermondsey — I would. I see no rea- 
son whatever for having a house in town at all. But if 
we do, it’ll be in a decent neighbourhood. I am not 
going to do things in a shabby, second-rate way. You 
quite understand that.” 

“Isn’t that rather — snobbish? What does it matter 
where you live?” 

“I’ll trouble you not to call me a snob. It does matter 
very considerably — to me. But it’s foolish to discuss the 
point, as I really don’t see why you should want a house. 
The thing’s absurd. And there’s the farm.” 

“Oh, Henry, you’re not keen about farming. That’s 
all nonsense. Besides, Haywood is perfectly reliable, 
and I do long sometimes to get a few amusing people to 
talk to. Round about here everybody either is or has a 
cow. That’s all there is to it.” 

It was a silly way of putting it, if honest, and Henry 
was infuriated. It was a direct snub to himself, he 
imagined. 


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‘‘Your damned artistic crowd, I suppose. Dear Sail 
with his soulful eyes — oh — ah — and Balliard — your old 
flame, Balliard. You can sentimentalize in a corner with 
him, can’t you?” 

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” 
said Dolly, falling back on her childhood’s defence. “I 
simply suggested that I wanted to take a house in Lon- 
don and see a few old friends. You could do the same. 
I am bored to death with the people about here for ever 
and ever. I can’t stand it without a break : and I really 
don’t see any reason why I should.” 

“What I said before is quite true,” said Henry primly. 
“You haven’t enough to do. If you’d had Evelyn and 
her children here there wouldn’t be so much talk of bore- 
dom.” 

“I would rather have died. I offered to help Evelyn 
in the way she wanted to be helped, but you wouldn’t 
hear of it. I married you, not your relations.” 

“Oh, I see: but that didn’t apply to me. I married 
you and your aristocratic cousins — Pearson, for in- 
stance.” 

Since her marriage Dolly had begun to realize the 
enormity of her offending relationships. This, how- 
ever, was the first time that Henry had directly taunted 
her. 

“In admirable taste!” she said. 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said, ignoring her. “You 
have no thought but to be admired by your set of damned 
poets. You’re eaten up with all this modern rubbish. 
The people about here have no ideas, have they ? They’re 
not fashionable, are they?” 

That was a considered outrage. Henry knew per- 
fectly well that Dolly loathed to be thought fashionable. 
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Fashion was in violent collision with her sense of in- 
dividuality. 

“No,” he went on, “you stand up for a low little slut 
who gets herself into trouble ” 

“Jenny was at least real.” 

“Real! You stand up for her, and you can’t or won’t 
have a child yourself. It’s these damned new ideas. 
You’re meant for higher things, aren’t you? That’s so 
mid-Victorian, isn’t it?” 

So that was it — that was the end to which he had been 
leading up. He had never consented to talk about it 
during the past year. It was a question too indelicate 
to be discussed. Whenever Dolly’s natural candour had 
led her to broach the subject, Henry had shown his 
sensitive distaste ; until gradually her frankness had been 
stifled, and very slowly by imperceptible degrees, Dolly 
had come to regard complete reticence as a normal con- 
dition. And — so that was it. The wound to which he 
had persistently refused the air had festered and festered 
in his mind and now showed itself a foul sore. 

Dolly’s eyes blazed for a moment as she looked at him. 
Then she rose and without speaking went towards her 
own room. 

As Henry saw her going up the stairs he half rose, 
with the idea of calling her back. But he thought bet- 
ter of it, and began slowly, and with fingers that trembled 
a little, to fill his pipe. He was perfectly well aware 
that he had played the cad, and the knowledge was not 
soothing. But he had been driven to it, of that he was 
at least equally sure. Dolly had been outspoken in her 
disdain of so much that he himself admired, or at all 
events that which he assumed without reasoning to be 
admirable as established and permanent. It was en- 
tirely Dolly’s fault for preaching the gospel of free and 

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new womanhood, which, however much she denied it, 
was the fad of the hour. When it came to practice, 
women were always happiest with babies, or in their 
storerooms or gardens. Then for amusement they could 
do much that their husbands did, and if they must fuss 
about outside their homes, the parsons were always very 
glad of their help. . . . Still, he supposed he oughtn’t 
to have lost his temper like that. After all, it wasn’t 
her fault that her pedigree was not as stainless as his 
own, and, to be honest, it would have been an awful 
bore to have kept Evelyn any longer. He was out of 
sorts — ^that was the trouble. Dolly made no allowances 
for the possibility of his being below par; ready enough 
though she was to make headaches serve their recurrent 
turn as excuses. However, that was the nature of 
women, no doubt. You couldn’t expect reasoning from 
them. Well, she would soon recover and he would 
make himself pleasant to her that evening: he would 
have up a bottle of the claret they got lately which Ger- 
ald had told him of and which Dolly so unfeignedly liked 
and which as a rule he kept for very special occasions 
and guests honoured above the usual. Little thoughtful 
actions of that sort were so much appreciated by women. 
So that was really all right. . . . 

He did not at all like this idea of a house in London. 
It would be a very great and perfectly unnecessary ex- 
pense. It would mean that they would be perpetually 
there, wasting time, with Dolly’s unspeakable acquaint- 
ances. Good Heavens, supposing that one of their friends 
called when the house was full of appalling people. What 
would be thought ! Henry had seen some of these gentry 
— ^women who said anything — anything; and rapturous 
young asses who had never been properly kicked, and 
tousled old men who hadn’t shaved. . . . Henry be- 
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gan to get angry again at the thought of so much ex- 
pense and so much indignity. The town house was a 
preposterous notion. And Michael wanted him to come 
for a trip to America and had thrown out suggestions 
about the Rockies and grisly bears. The prospect was 
most alluring, but he did not at all care about Dolly 
fooling irresponsibly about in London all the time. It 
wasn’t proper. He told himself that she had a charming 
house of her own in a very pretty country, with plenty 
of most agreeable people about her. What more could 
she want? Really there was no pleasing some people. 

And now his self-esteem was for the moment quite 
restored. 

From the hall window he could see the man bringing 
his horse round. He was going for a good gallop in the 
cool of the day. He got up, patted his breeches, pulled 
his waistcoat down, put away his pipe, and made sure 
that there were cigars in their case and matches in their 
silver box. Yes — a good ride, an easy trot up the road, 
in at the gate by the old turnpike, a short cut through 
the wood, and then a long gallop across the park. Some- 
thing like a friend, was Graham. Henry could use the 
park almost as though it were his own. And certainly 
he must not take advantage of it. Henry was full of 
gentlemanly feelings for his neighbours. 

While he was busily and pleasantly engaged in putting 
himself right in his own estimation, Dolly was standing 
quite still, upstairs in her own little sitting-room. Her 
eyes were fixed upon the table. For some minutes she 
was unable to think connectedly. She only knew that 
she was more angry than she had ever been in her life 
and that her anger was cold. Her whole body shook, 
but she felt little desire to cry. She could almost have 
laughed at the pettiness of the quarrel, if it had not 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


been for what was said. The expense of a house in 
London ! Henry said nothing of the expense of his pro- 
posed expedition with Michael. It was always the price 
of a thing which occurred first to him. 

And when all was said and done, Henry had no right 
to quarrel with her perfectly reasonable disposal of her 
own income. She had never said this to him and never 
would. But she had more than once imagined conversa- 
tions with Henry in which this would be her last word, 
her trump card. And on each occasion she had blushed 
for very shame that such a thought could have come to 
her. Nevertheless, Henry ought to remember sometimes. 
Before they were married, when she had proposed, 
vaguely enough no doubt — ^to have a house in London, 
he had of course made no murmur. 

As for his meaner taunt, he could not realize — ^no, he 
could not possibly realize what that meant to a woman. 
He had never let her open her heart to him. Whenever 
she had begun to talk of what was always deepest in her 
mind, he had snubbed or evaded her and changed the 
subject or kept a sheepish and idiotic silence. He had 
not the smallest inkling of how passionately she longed 
for a child. 

There was no sympathy between them — she had heard 
people give that as a reason for otherwise unaccountable 
sterility. No sympathy, no tenderness. But there was — 
there was. She loved Henry. After all her self-ques- 
tionings of the last few months she had asked herself 
that and could always answer — yes. She loved him. 
But — could she go on loving him if 

She became aware that all the time she was staring at 
the little table where Patience cards were neatly spread 
out. She looked at them now with seeing eyes. Often 
in the past she had thought of playing cards and their 
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symbolic relations to life. Clubs, she had told herself, 
were for power and strength, and Hearts were obvious ; 
Spades meant hard work; and Diamonds — Diamonds 
stood for money — ^money — money, the last and the low- 
est of the four. 

“For Henry,” she said to herself, “Diamonds are 
trumps.” 

Long, long ago she had admitted to herself that he was 
but human, that her money had not in his eyes by any 
means made her less attractive. And he should enjoy 
it too, she had promised herself : and she would make up 
to him for his hard times and he should have things to 
the best of her means as he liked them. And now Dia- 
monds' — ^there was an ace there on the table staring her 
in the face — Diamonds were over everything. Nothing 
mattered to Henry but money. Nothing about her mat- 
tered to Henry but her money. For her money he had 
married her, for her money only. 

And now when she proposed to spend a little of her 
money on herself — in a manner that before her marriage 
she had often predicted — he must lose his temper and his 
head and resort to abject personalities. Then at length 
she did break down and cry. She did not know that 
Henry still held his trump card. 

During his ride, Henry had been unable to retain the 
mood of self-satisfaction in which he had set out. Now 
and again the suspicion, and latterly the certainty, oc- 
curred to him that his behaviour had not been of the 
highest category in the code that he professed. As he 
rode through the wood, the persistent little devil of 
memory, which had so happily eluded him immediately 
after the event, began to assert himself. Henry recalled 
by one the things that he had said to Dolly: and 

229 


one 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the more he remembered, the more anxious he grew to 
find his position defensible, the more reason he felt for 
doubting its security. He could not face the possibility 
of being really sorry for his conduct, still less of making 
Dolly a generous apology. He was sure that there must 
be excellent excuses somewhere if only he could think of 
them, but the devil of memory who tormented him failed 
quite signally to rake up anything that Dolly had said 
which would serve to make his answers conscience-proof. 
Having previously made up his mind that he was right 
and that nothing should shake him from his infallibility, 
he was as a matter of course exceedingly angry at his 
failure. And thereupon he harnessed his devil to Dolly 
alone and soon came to remember almost every annoy- 
ing thing that she had said during the past few months. 
But none of these helped him very much. 

Consequently he returned home bent on having it out 
with Dolly, resolved to show her that though he had been 
rather rough — he would concede that much — he was 
right, and the idea of the London house must be given 
up. He reflected that she was no fool, she could see rea- 
son when she chose to. After that he would order up the 
special claret just the same, and ask her to play to him 
after dinner. 

He could not find Dolly when he came into the house. 
She was not in the hall. He called her and got no an- 
swer. He asked one of the servants if she was in the 
garden. No. She thought the mistress was upstairs. 
Henry went therefore to the little sitting-room. He 
walked rather heavily and opened the door with a vicious 
tug at the old iron latch anxious still to assure himself 
that all was well. He found Dolly sitting still by the 
window, looking out into the garden, idle. She had 
stopped crying, but he could see the traces of her tears. 
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‘^Now, look here, Dolly, he said with a kind of heavy 
good humour which rang false and sounded rather ridicu- 
lous, ^‘look here 

She turned her head and glanced at him with an ex- 
pression that was new to him. He could not understand 
it. She had been crying, obviously : but her face looked 
harder than he had ever known it. 

“Henry,’^ she said in a level voice, “Fve quite made up 
my mind to have that house unless you are quite sure you 
can’t afford it.” 

There was no hint of intentional sarcasm in her voice. 
She meant exactly what she said. She was wondering 
whether the expedition to the Rocky Mountains would 
run away with so much of the year’s income that they 
would really be unable conveniently to find the money. 

But Henry, with his sore conscience, instantly jumped 
to the conclusion, palpable in his own mind, that she was 
asserting herself. That was the same thing as taunting 
him with his poverty. She had resorted to a vulgar 
triumph. She was laughing at him, throwing into prom- 
inence her wealth on which he was living. 

He had held his trump card, chuckling to himself now 
and again over his possession. He had laughed when it 
was first put into his hand, he had laughed about it at 
least once since then. He had refrained from playing it 
until an adequate reason should present itself. Now his 
sudden anger rather than the occasion seemed to justify 
it. He had so far refrained, and given a minute of cool 
thinking, would have continued to refrain, less that he 
might use his knowledge to the discomfiture of Dolly 
than that he might dwell in the complacence of his own 
magnanimity. When he had laughed, certainly he had 
said to himself that she would not be so pleased with 
herself if she knew : but far more often he had patted 

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himself on the back. He had gloated over his private 
knowledge. He was doing a notably unselfish thing and 
he was keeping silence. He had felt a very fine fellow. 
When he did tell her, Dolly would be justifiably humbled 
and contrite. She would learn then to respect him. 

. . unless you are sure you can’t afford it.” 

^‘Oh, very well,” he said. ‘T know. You needn’t 
remind me. You think you’ve got the whip hand of me 
because our uncle left you tuppence ha’penny a year, 
don’t you? Perhaps it will interest you to know that 
your uncle never legally inherited at all : and I did. It’s 
my money that you’ve been so proud of. I never said 
anything about it because, well, because there seemed no 
occasion to do so. But I think now you’d better know. 
I’ll show you.” 

Dolly stared at him and did not say a word. 

He turned from the door and went into his dressing- 
room. After a minute or so, Dolly heard him close the 
small safe which he kept there, and presently he returned 
with a large cash^box. Deliberately he took his ring of 
keys, unlocked it, turned over a variety of papers and at 
length came to a long envelope that he well knew. This 
he gave to her. 

‘‘Read it,” he said. 


232 


CHAPTER XXVI 


HINKING it over, both immediately afterwards and 



A in years to come, Dolly always regretted that for 
once in her life she had held her impulse in check. But 
for the sense of antagonism which had overclouded the 
whole of that day, crystallized in Henry’s evilly intended 
outrage, she would have obeyed her instinct, and would 
have shown him the instant joy that the surprising news 
had given her. For if he had known, as he said, that 
the money was his by legal right before their marriage, 
he could not have married her on its account. She could 
not have reasoned out all at once the pros and cons of it 
as Henry in his leisure did on the night that Oliver had 
spoken. So it was a glint of unlooked for happiness 
that came to her in that first bewildering moment. She 
ought to have taken him in her arms ; she ought to have 
admitted the injustice she had done him; she ought — so 
her subsequent reasoning assured her — ^to have told him 
how much she preferred him, the man, to be the owner 
of the accidental wealth, which, had the clouds lacked 
the necessity for silver linings, would have been the 
literal truth. And in this way she would have disarmed 


him. 


As it was, after the last conversation in her little room, 
the events of the day had combined not only to make her 
miserable but to make her cautious. For one illumined 


233 


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instant she genuinely tasted the joy which without the 
bitterness that had gone before would have been lasting. 
But her surprise kept her silent, and that gave her time 
to realize the truth or part of it ; that to Henry the revela- 
tion was no mere statement of fact, but a designed stroke 
of malice. All that had gone before and the tone of his 
voice now proclaimed it. He believed that the fact of his 
ownership of the money would be grievous to her, and 
after that one brief glimpse of her real self, stifled now, 
it was grievous. Her generosity of temperament had 
no room to live. She was beset by mean and despicable 
motives. She felt physically breathless. She had a vehe- 
ment longing to be alone. As she stood there looking 
at Henry with his prim, unmoved face and eyes that 
neither asked a question nor answered hers, she felt 
afraid. Later she wondered why he had not looked com- 
mon at that moment, or pale and unwholesome, or cring- 
ing and vile, or red and angry. But there he was with 
his pink, well-shaved face, his neat little moustache, his 
nice clothes, wholly as usual, well-bred, restrained. The 
thing that he had done rose before her as an incalculable 
wrong, a meanness so craven and so cruel — without even 
the straightforward humanity of an obvious selfishness — 
as to be beyond the lowest depths of her understanding. 
Her mind groped for the full significance of it, and could 
only find a chaos of black despair. Hysteric cravings 
seized her — ^to laugh, to cry, to scream, to push him 
with her hands away, away. . . . 

Somehow she got out of the room. She wondered 
afterwards if she had struck Henry. She had a vague 
consciousness that she might have done so; but equally 
it might have been only in her imagination. She hurried 
downstairs and out into the garden, and out again into 

234 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the fields beyond, through the thin rain, running and 
stumbling. 

And then, out of sight, with the brow of the steep hill- 
side behind her, where the vale sank away in curves of 
green and palest violet, she threw herself down and 
buried her face in the wet grass. 


235 





CHAPTER XXVII 


Tl^HEN Dolly did not appear at dinner time — itself 
^ ^ postponed for nearly an hour — Henry’s first 
thought concerned the servants. Had they noticed that 
something was wrong? He had discovered that Dolly 
had left the house by looking for her within it, not by 
asking anyone. From his room he had heard her return 
by the garden door. A little later Johnson herself came 
into the hall where he was now waiting, and told him 
that Mistress had the headache bad, and he was not to 
worry about her, but have his dinner, and she would 
take up a bowl of soup. 

She said this in so cold and severe a manner that 
Henry quite believed either that the maid had listened at 
the door during their last conversation, or that Dolly, 
who had obviously been on the brink of hysteria, had 
confided in her. But of course, he reflected presently, 
Johnson was always cold and severe. Old ghoul, how 
Dolly could endure the woman about her was more than 
he could imagine. But he must run upstairs and find 
out that there was nothing serious. 

He knocked and went into her room. Johnson was 
gathering together an armful of rain-sodden clothes. 
Dolly was in her dressing-gown with her feet, by John- 
son’s advice, in hot water. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘'Go along and have dinner/’ she said immediately. 
‘T shall be all right.” 

“You’ve got very wet.” 

“Johnson ’ll look after me.” 

Her tone was quite ordinary. Evidently she did not 
mean to give away the situation to the servants. He 
stood there hesitating for a moment, and as he could think 
of nothing more that he could say before the maid, he 
left her. 

It was bound to be a bit of a shock, he decided. But it 
was better that she should know. After all, it would 
make no difference whatever, as he would show Dolly 
later on. It was much more satisfactory to clear the 
ground and have no secrets between husband and wife. 
How often had Dolly said the same thing herself. He 
had quite forgotten his mental attitude of a couple of 
hours ago. 

When Dolly had run from her sitting-room after he 
had told her the true story of her money, she had left 
the will half in, half out of its long envelope upon the 
table, and Henry with his punctual carefulness had re- 
turned it to his safe. As soon as he had finished his 
meal, he went upstairs and took it out again. As he 
stood there with the long stiff envelope in his two hands, 
his obvious thought dwelt on the surprising power for 
o-ood and evil, happiness and woe vested in one sheet of 
bluish paper with a few lines written by a clerk and 
three signatures. ... He brought his thumbs close 
together in the middle of the envelope, and then stayed 
still. No. He would let Dolly see him do it. He had 
always intended to destroy the will once it had served 
its purpose. He went again to her room. He did not 
feel particularly nervous. Of course, it must have been 
a blow for her to find herself penniless who had doled 

237 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


out expensive presents to him and had prided herself 
upon the restoration of Needs. But he would show her 
that nothing should change. It would be a very unbusi- 
nesslike thing to do; illegal as a matter of fact. But it 
was simply a matter between the two of them. No- 
body could possibly know or care which of them had the 
technical possession. 

Again he knocked and opened the door, as Dolly said 
''Come in.’' The room was almost dark. He could just 
make out her form by the open window. 

"I thought I’d come and clear this thing up at once,” 
he said in a friendly voice, "and then there’ll be no 
further need to worry about it.” 

"I don’t see that there’s anything to clear up,” Dolly 
said quietly, without turning her head. "Please settle 
the matter with the lawyers.” 

"I don’t propose to trouble the lawyers. There’s no 
need to. I shall just destroy this and then the thing’s 
ended.” 

"You’ll destroy it? But the money is yours.” 

"Well — we share it in any case.” 

"Please don’t destroy it. I should greatly prefer you 
to have your money for yourself.” 

She had not moved at all. Her voice was low and 
cold, utterly indifferent. Henry perceived that he must 
be very friendly indeed. 

"Oh, nonsense,” he said, "nonsense. Let’s have a 
light.” 

He went to the dressing-table and lit a candle. Then 
he took the will from the envelope and held a corner of 
it in the flame. He held it up so that it should catch well 
alight. 

"Don’t do that — don’t do that,” said Dolly turning for 
the first time. "What are you doing?” 

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‘That’s all right,” said Henry, and dropped the blaz- 
ing paper into the empty grate. “All gone now — so much 
ash. Now we can go on as before.” 

An unintelligible sound, a kind of choking laugh, came 
from Dolly. 

“Good night, dear,” said Henry. “I dare say you’d 
like to be alone. I hope your headache will be better 
soon.” 

No answer. He went quietly from the room. He said 
to himself that women had their queer moods; though 
he had never known Dolly like this before. She would 
be better in the morning. 

He went downstairs again to smoke and to read 
Handley Cross. 

The next day however was but a repetition on a larger 
and more painful scale of the evening before it. Before 
servants Dolly talked in an indifferent way about usual 
things. With no third person present she was silent. 
She avoided Henry as much as possible. In the after- 
noon she drove in to Utchester, taking a dogcart without 
the groom. In the evening she kept to her own sitting- 
room. There Henry found her on his way to bed. She 
was standing still, looking into the glass. She had her 
terrier under her arm, and he struggled to be free di- 
rectly he heard his master come in. Some perverse in- 
stinct made him love Henry. 

“Now, Dolly,” he said quickly, “it’s time all this non- 
sense stopped. You have nothing to complain of.” 

Dolly turned and looked at him for a moment and 
then sat down by the bookcase. 

“Please leave me alone. I want to think.” 

“Oh, very well.” 

The following day she said abruptly that she was going 

239 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


to Sussex for a few days to stay with Bella Keene. She 
had telegraphed to her and received the reply. 

‘‘Well, I must say I hope you’ll be in a better temper 
when you come back,” said Henry, but got no answer. 

As a matter of fact thought was the last thing that 
Dolly wanted to encourage. She felt now that the ground 
had been digged from her very feet. Her entire outlook 
upon life was radically changed. Little by little, bitter 
word by bitter word, she had grown to recognise disaster. 
Henry’s latest exploit had but served in one moment to 
demonstrate the full possibilities of his disposition. 

It was impossible to stay alone with Henry at present. 
She knew that it was perfectly impossible to make him 
understand. It was quite plain that he thought she cared 
about the filthy money which she had believed to be her 
own; that at bottom she cared nothing for it whatever 
was outside the uttermost limit of his comprehension. 
She could not hope to make him understand what he had 
done. She was profoundly thankful that he was going 
away for a time. During his absence, she would have 
time to let her mind grow accustomed to the horrible 
certainty which circumstances had dinned for so long 
and so unavailingly in her ears. She would have time 
to settle down with her eyes open and to see how the best 
might yet be made of her life. Her old ideals were shat- 
tered. Never again would she smile to herself, forgiving 
Henry for some small annoyance in the light of her 
overwhelming love. No longer could she hug herself 
in private because she understood his funny ways and 
because he did not know the meaning of her love. For 
love had fled away. There could be no more thought 
of it. She felt that there could be no more joy in the 
things that she had relied upon for so long, the house, 
the garden. A sudden detestation of the place surged 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


over her. She must go away — if only, as she had said, 
for a few days — she must go away. . . . 

Bella immediately saw that some of her vague fears 
had been justified, but she asked no questions and she 
kept Dolly busy with strangers and social occupations. 
Her invincible optimism allowed no room for the possi- 
bility of lasting trouble, and knowing that Dolly was not 
in the mood to be beguiled by any fresh interest or new 
ambition, she contented herself with sending her to bed 
physically tired out every night. She played the part 
of a relentless trainer, forcing her charge to eat, urging 
her with brusque tact to play tennis or to come for long 
walks. She laughed like a hyena when she got the least 
opportunity and talked loudly all the time. She guessed 
that by doing this she might be risking her friendship, 
but she was confident that the course was the only one to 
pursue. 

It was while Dolly was staying with Bella that Henry 
got a telegram from Michael calling him up to London. 
It was necessary to make preparations for their expedi- 
tion, to procure rifles, to consult people who had visited 
the Rocky Mountains. And Henry was still away when 
Dolly returned. He wrote letters to her full of his plans 
and keeping clear of dangerous topics. He was utterly 
at a loss to understand Dolly; but no doubt she would 
come round, so he said to himself, sooner or later. She 
replied briefly, giving only such information about the 
farm and the animals as he had specifically sought. 

Then one day he wrote to say that Michael’s health 
was worse again, that he was moody and depressed and 
that the expedition must be given up. Henry proposed 
to take his brother to Switzerland for a time. At the 
end of his letter he added that he did not regret the 
relinquishing of their original plans, as for the certainty 

241 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


of the pleasure to be derived from it, the outlay would 
have been prodigious, and at that Dolly, for the first 
time for many a day, laughed. 

It was fortunate for those who believed in the sweet- 
ness of her disposition that they were unable to hear 
her. 


242 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


M ust you really go to-day?” Elsie asked. 

‘Tity you can’t wait till Henry comes back,” 
said Graham. *‘He’ll be sorry to have missed you.” 

‘‘No. I must get back,” Oliver said. “Thanks all the 
same. I must see to things.” 

Mid-September had come with blazing days and skies 
of deepest blue, and vast billows of dazzling white cloud. 
Clenham was at its mellowest and best, with trailing 
masses of late roses, the air of the big walled gardens 
heavy and hot with rich scents, the w^oods which climbed 
the hill side beyond the lake all red and gold and gold 
again. 

For its own sake Oliver was sincerely sorry to leave 
Clenham. The opulence and splendour of the place were 
in keeping with his mood. “They do you awfully well,” 
was the first thing most of the Faucets’ guests said of 
them, and Oliver liked being done well. He was in a 
triumphant temper of mind. His visit had been a bril- 
liant success. Knightley, the Member — to say nothing 
of the Faucets themselves — had been obviously pleased 
with his speech at the meeting for which he had come 
from London. And he had deferred to his opinion in 
subsequent conversation. Oliver had primed himself 
with topical allusions and agricultural jokes: he had 
won an attentive hearing from an usually indifferent 

243 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


crowd. Then he had shot as he had never shot before. 
Everybody made much of him; and one pair of bright 
eyes had glittered with the understanding sympathy and 
appreciation which he sought. He had been agreeably 
patronising to young Clarey, who had just returned 
from India; and had shown himself thoroughly conver- 
sant with horseflesh. He knew just the sort of story 
to please a young subaltern. He kept a selection of good 
new stories available for every kind of company. Save 
in the case of one small worry which he was forcing 
himself to forget, his private affairs gave no anxiety. 
The commercial venture which he had undertaken the 
previous year, and about which he still held his tongue, 
had turned out quite a reasonable success. He had 
plenty of pocket money for once in his life and was be- 
holden to no man. His schemes for the future were 
maturing. His grandfather was said to be upon his last 
legs. He bubbled over with such vitality that Graham, 
who commonly detested braggadocio, could not but fall 
under his compelling fascination and listen, beguiled, to 
the stories he told to his own aggrandisement. 

Certainly it would have been better if he had kept clear 
of billiards, Oliver thought, with a passing twinge of 
wounded vanity. Undeniably he had been caught. He 
ought to have been prepared for wolves in sheeps’ cloth- 
ing. The episode had occurred on the previous evening. 
It had been safe, he supposed, to talk of his billiards, be- 
cause Graham lacked distinguished skill at all indoor 
games, and the only other person present had been old 
Thorpe, the rector. The old man had begged him to 
play fifty up. He had been fond of billiards as a young 
man, he said: and to humour him, and with a certain 
feeling of self-pity for the wasted time, Oliver had 
agreed. 

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Oh, that’s too bad,’’ Graham had said in an even voice 
but with a very gentle smile. “Too bad !” 

So thought Oliver. What possible pleasure would the 
old idiot get from being danced round by a player like 
himself? But perhaps a cheap victory was better than 
no fun at all at the day’s end. 

It had fallen to his lot to play first. He had made a 
smooth and uneventful break of ten. His last stroke 
had been a very narrow miss. 

“Hard luck,” said old Thorpe. 

“I hit it.” Oliver was annoyed with himself. 

“You didn’t — really,” said Graham from the marking 
board. 

“I hit it very, very hard indeed,” muttered Oliver from 
between clenched teeth. 

The old man had then chalked his cue and stood it 
against the table whilst he carefully removed his cuffs, 
pulling them over his long bony hands. He put them 
side by side on a small table where they looked like jam 
pots, and it was all Oliver could do to restrain his out- 
right laughter. 

These preparations leisurely made, the old man- leaned 
over the table in an awkward and unorthodox fashion 
and began to play. 

“Good Lord!” said Oliver to Graham. “What is he 
trying to do?” 

“You watch,” Graham answered. 

After a difficult stroke or two the old man had the 
balls to his liking and still in his uncomfortable and 
unusual manner proceeded to run out. Oliver’s com- 
ments died early. He could only stare in horrid con- 
sternation as the rector shambled round the table, silent 
for the most part, but now and again complaining of hi^ 
failing sight, when a successful stroke had yet not 

245 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


reached what he considered the absolute pinnacle of 
perfection. Oliver never so much as touched his own 
cue again. 

On the following day when he was about to leave 
Clenham the sensation of having been sold still rankled. 
He was a bad loser, and at a moment when the world 
was sunny and smiling and all else was right with it and 
him, it seemed worth while definitely to cancel this small 
annoyance. He must do something to restore the perfect 
balance of his self-esteem. In the meantime he had just 
finished luncheon and was smoking an unexceptional 
cigar, thinking with placid content of the morning's bag, 
so goodly a proportion of which had fallen to his own 
gun. 

"‘Yes,” he said, “I'm sorry I shan't see Henry. It's 
a bore. No chance of seeing him for ages now, I sup- 
pose. I shall have gone abroad, I expect, by the time 
he returns. Pity that trip to the Rockies isn't coming 
off.” 

“His brother wasn't up to it, you know,” said Elsie. 

“Silly ass said he couldn't run to it also,” laughed 
Graham, “which is absurd, hey?” 

“I've no patience with people who give two excuses 
when one will serve,” said Oliver. “However, I must 
get him to come with me some time. It's a great am- 
bition of mine to shoot a grisly. By the way, I must 
go and pay my respects to Mrs. Henry before I go. I 
thought I’d go there on the way to the station. I know 
what I'll do — I’ll walk, and get Mrs. Henry to give me 
a cup of tea. Your man can leave my bag at the sta:- 
tion any time.” 

“There's no need to do that,” said Graham. 

“I’d like to. A good walk across the park would be 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


just the thing for me. I shan’t get another chance of 
a country walk for weeks.” 

“Just as you like. I’d come with you only I’ve got 
to see these County Council people this afternoon.” 

Also there was a little article on “Some Strange Shoot- 
ing Experiences” that he meant to write, but he said 
nothing about that. 

“It seems dreadfully inhospitable,” said Elsie. 

“Oh, no, not at all. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely. 
Lady Faucet.” 

“Well, I hope you’ll come again before long.” 

Oliver felt very sentimental about his short visit to 
the country. And he liked the absolute freedom of 
walking. He would go and have tea at Needs, which 
was half way to the station, and then walk on at his 
leisure to catch the eight o’clock train. He knew that 
Graham and Elsie were fully occupied that day. And 
this plan would solve their difficulty in looking after 
him. It pleased Oliver to kill two birds with one stone 
when it was convenient to do so. If he could please 
useful people by doing something to please himself — so 
much the better. So it was arranged. He sought out the 
man who was to take his luggage to the station, tipped 
him and other servants generously, waved his hat to 
Graham and his wife, who stood upon the steps to watch 
him go, and with swinging stick and long eager strides 
set out by way of the lake side to cross the park. _ Pres- 
ently he took off his grey flannel jacket and hung it over 
his arm. It was deliciously hot. It was a pity there 
was no time for a swim. , „ 

When he arrived at Needs, Oliver found Dolly wait- 
ing for him in the garden. He had told her two nights 
ago at the Primrose League meeting that he proposed to 
come He knew perfectly well that there was trouble 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


in the air though he had not been given many opportu- 
nities for observation lately. But he had seen Dolly in 
London during the last week in July, and the palpable 
manner in which the Graham Faucets had avoided the 
subject of Needs had told him more than they meant 
it should. Anyhow he knew enough to make any cere- 
monious reference to or enquiry about Henry super- 
fluous. To his great annoyance he found that Evelyn 
Attewell was staying there. He had met her several 
times in the past before Henry's marriage and quite 
naturally detested her. She had come to Needs, she ex- 
plained, to gather strength from the invigorating air 
before plunging into her final preparations for the school 
with Miss Baker. She was, however, too much occupied 
with writing letters to disturb them after tea. 

It was delicious to sit there in the shade and to watch 
Dolly lazily plucking grapes from their stalk and throw- 
ing one now and again to greedy little birds who swooped 
down from the branches overhead, and, frightened, flew 
away again on lower planes to some secure feeding- 
place. He lit a cigarette and threw the dead match to 
where from across the lawn a blackbird was hopping. 

^‘What a shame," said Dolly. “He thinks it’s a grape. 
He’ll be awfully disappointed.’’ 

The blackbird having discovered his mistake made off. 

“Well, now you’ve given him a real one he’ll be doubly 
pleased. There you are, you see. He’s coming back. 
Now his gratification will be enormously enhanced, be- 
cause of his disappointment at first. And,’’ he added to 
himself, “there’s a lot in that.’’ 

Dolly sat up in her deck chair and stretched herself 
with her hands behind her head, her bosom thrown out, 
every curving line in her body emphasised. She turned 
her head suddenly and smiled at him. 

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“Must you catch that eight o’clock train?” she asked. 
“You might just as well stop the night and have dinner 
comfortably. I do so want someone to talk to.” 

Oliver was upon the very brink of accepting with 
alacrity, but he remembered the blackbird. 

“Thanks so much, I should love to, but I must get 
up to London. I shall have to spend the night in the 
train as it is, and I’ve got a meeting of shareholders 
I must attend in the morning and lawyers to see first. 
Very good of you to ask me — wish I could.” 

“Well, you must come down again before long. What 
have you done to your arm?” 

Oliver had caught back his sleeve upon the arm of his 
chair. Now he hurriedly released it. 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said, “only an old scar.” 

“It was a horribly bad one. It was I know — it was 
that duel. I — I heard about it.” 

“Yes,” he said. “I got it in a duel. Nasty rip, but 
that’s all.” 

Dolly’s eyes glowed. 

“And you did that for some wretched girl who took 
it all as a matter of course.” 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders and smiled. It was a 
pity, Dolly thought, that his teeth stuck out so, but they 
were beautifully white. 

“All in the day’s work. I knew the man slightly, — 
no more than I knew the girl. He came up to the table 
where we were sitting and was insolent. I had to chal- 
lenge him and got beaten.” 

“Poor Oliver! Did you really?” 

“A devilish fine swordsman. I never had a chance. 
I don’t blame the girl. Of course, she thought I ought 
to have got him.” 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘Little cat! That sort of thing does make me 
furious/’ 

Oliver was pleased with himself. From Henry he had 
drawn admiration by saying that he had won the duel : 
but by the story of being beaten and wounded he had 
got the sympathy of Dolly. It was ingenious, he felt, to 
make so much profit from an old accident. 

“By the bye, have you done any sketching lately?” 
he asked. “I do wish you’d show me some, you never 
would before.” 

“No, I haven’t touched a brush since — oh, not for 
months. I’m only a very fifth-rate amateur.” 

“I wish you’d let me see,” he said, though he did not 
contradict her. 

“Then I will — ^just because you didn’t say the obvious 
thing. But come for a walk round the garden first. 
We’ll go and find some peaches and be pigs. I do love 
eating and drinking.” 

“So do 1. That’s real. What a thing — to be real!” 

Dolly suddenly remembered how once she had said 
that to herself of Jenny, the little housemaid. “I wonder 
if I am real!” she thought now. 

They walked through the garden and picked peaches 
from the wall, and presently returned to the house, 
where Dolly showed Oliver the long neglected sketch- 
book. Again Oliver did not say the obvious thing. Vig- 
orously and discerningly he found fault. He praised her 
sense of colour, but impugned her drawing. 

“Look — look!” he said. “That chair. You’ve got 
the colour of it absolutely.” It was an old chair in the 
hall and he could see it for himself. “But the per- 
spective’s terrible. It’s literary. You’ve drawn what 
you know is there, not what you see. You don’t see 
all that expanse of black, but you go and put it in just 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


because you happen to know about it. You might just 
as well put two eyes in a profile. You know Tve two 
eyes, but you can only see one when I stand — so.” 

“Yes, of course. You’re quite right, and I deserve 
my whipping. Oh, why can’t people be intelligent? 
Do you know why I never draw anything now? Be- 
cause I am perpetually being praised for making pretty 
pictures. So artistic — some woman said to me last sum- 
mer.” 

Oliver momentarily called up a picture in his mind 
of Henry in a generous mood bending over the back 
of her chair, either showering unenlightened approval, 
or finding fault with an impression as lacking defined 
detail. 

“I say,” said Oliver, after a few minutes with the 
drawings. “It’s getting late. I really must go now. 
I haven’t over much time to get to the station.” 

“What a pity that you should hurry on a hot evening 
like this. I do wish you’d let me drive you.” 

“No — ^no, indeed. I like the walk and I can get some- 
thing to eat on the train.” 

“I’ll come with you as far as the cross roads.” 

During their quick walk Oliver laid himself out to 
fascinate. For the Faucets he had private informa- 
tion about the Kaiser’s congratulatory telegram to 
Kruger. He made most intriguing and circumstantial 
revelations, but now he changed the keynote. He became 
personal. He talked with a glowing and growing in- 
timacy. For the first time, it seemed to Dolly, for untold 
ages she found herself excited and stimulated, eager in 
discussion. She found someone who could disagree with- 
out quarrelling, who had a ready answer to any question. 
Oliver also conveyed the idea of having a lyric apprecia- 
tion of the loveliness about them. Insensibly their pace 

251 


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slackened. Near the cross-roads they stopped for a 
minute leaning on a gate, gazing westwards to the low 
hills and curving woodlands. They watched the quickly 
changing colours ; the long and narrow cloud banks, pur- 
ple and gold and deeper red than wine, fading towards 
the south to dimmest blue. The town of Utchester lay 
beneath the swell of the hills, with factory chimneys short 
and thick, and thick again, but tall. As the brighter 
lights died down their smoke became more discernible, 
rising to obscure the further houses and drifting away 
on aerial planes of amethyst. From the tall chimney 
stacks it floated right away, up and out, in a glory of 
russet brown and cinnamon against the flaming sky. 

^'And if only man wasn’t vile,” Dolly said, after a 
moment or two’s silence. ‘"What does he want to spoil 
it all for with those odious slag heaps?” 

“I like them,” said Oliver. “They mean life and 
people and work. You know, I don’t think man’s a bit 
vile. I do in the way you mean, but not in the way 
Dr. Watts or whoever it was did. I like man very much 
taken as a big idea.” 

“Oh, but you can’t like slag heaps really, they’ve no 
form.” 

“I really do. Look now — how they are changing 
colour, colder and colder, deepest indigo.” 

He said it appealingly, wanting her alliance with his 
point of view. Dolly looked at him and could not resist. 

“Yes, they’re beautiful now,” she said. “Oh, why 
must I go back to dinner and talk about horrid little 
boys to Evelyn? Why can’t I go on walking? It’s 
such a perfect evening.” 

“You did eat too many peaches,” laughed Oliver, “or 
you wouldn’t complain of dinner.” He looked at his 
watch. “Jehoshaphat! look at the time! I shall have 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


to make haste. Good-bye. I am so sorry to dash off 
like this. But you understand, don’t you?” 

“Of course, I only wish you could have stayed. 
You’ve plenty of time really,” she added, looking at her 
own watch. “It’s downhill nearly all the way. You’ve 
half an hour.” 

“Your watch must be wrong. I make it twenty to. 
Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye.” 

He shook hands in a perfunctory way, and hurried 
down the road without turning his head. Dolly watched 
him out of sight. It was most disappointing. It had 
been such a jolly walk. . . . And then this cursory de- 
parture at the end. And his last words — somehow — had 
been so conventionally said. He might have been leaving 
a dull drawing-room after a duty call. She suddenly felt 
very desolate. He had been rather rude, dashing away 
like that. From a high point just above Needs Dolly 
looked towards the railway line, which at a point about 
a third of the way to Utchester emerged from a cutting 
and ran straightly within her long sight before curving 
to a wayside station behind some distant woods. It was 
growing very dark but she could make out the puff of 
white smoke which could be seen at no other point. She 
knew how long the train would take upon its circuitous 
route and she decided that Oliver ought just to catch 
it. . . . 

As she returned to the house she heard Evelyn calling 
her from a window. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” Dolly said as they went into 
the dining-room. “Because it so happens there’s rattier 
a good dinner to-night.” 


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Evelyn was above all fleshly joys and resented them 
in her sister-in-law. 

‘Thank you,” she said, “but anything is good enough 
for me— bread and cheese. This is an age of deplorably 
increasing luxury, dear. We take too much thought 
what we shall eat and what we shall drink. It is our 
spiritual food of which we never think at all.” 

“Very well,” said Dolly, “you can eat bread and 
cheese. I shall fill my tummy with nice things. Also, 
I will take away that biscuit tin which you keep by 
your bedside. I think a woman whose last thoughts 
before going to sleep every night are centred upon Petits 
Beurres must be on the brink of a great moral collapse. 
I don’t mind telling you that I am hungry. I walked a 
little way towards the station with Mr. Maitland with 
the express purpose of getting an appetite. That was 
very disgusting.” 

“What a head that man has,” remarked Evelyn, dole- 
fully sifting a little of the Parmesan variety of her de- 
sired fare into her soup. “Magnificent development. 
And he has such a grip of things. After the meeting the 
other night we were speaking of the Education ques- 
tion and ” 

Dolly was not listening to her. The sound of car- 
riage wheels upon the drive was rather difficult to explain 
at that hour. A ridiculous and unreasonable idea oc- 
curred to her — momentarily — ^that Henry without the 
least warning had returned. The thought filled her with 
anger and dismay. She had wanted time to fit her mind 
to the renewal of her life with him. . . . Before, how- 
ever, her wild conjecture had the chance of coming in 
conflict with her common sense, there was the sound 
of voices in the hall and in another moment the door 
2.54 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


opened to admit Oliver Maitland. He stood there for a 
moment laughing. Dolly rose. 

^‘Talk of the devil . . she said. 

“I’m going to ask you for some dinner, after all. How 
do you do, Mrs. Attewell — oh, but we met at tea. Yes, 
I was just in time to see the train go out of the station 
as I got on to the bridge. So I got a fly and came back. 
Do you mind?” 

“How delightful. This is jolly. Come along — do. 
Mitchell, bring some soup. But how maddening to see 
the train go out under your nose like that.” 

“I’ve discovered I can catch a night express from 
Keeley Junction — which’ll do me just as well. So that 
I’m exceedingly glad I did miss it.” 

Dolly’s vague sense of disappointment when Oliver 
rushed off down the road, together with her fleeting sus- 
picion just now that Henry might have made a sur- 
prising return conspired to magnify her pleasure in the 
substitution of the former. Her eyes shone, and even 
Evelyn could not have failed to notice the difference in 
her mien, if she had not been so closely attentive to the 
good food she despised. 

Oliver threw back his head and looked at Dolly with 
a triumphant expression which she could not have hoped 
to understand. He was conscious of having used his 
brains and he was sure he had succeeded in using them 
to good purpose. 

He frankly enjoyed his dinner, and made himself 
alternately agreeable to the two women. To Evelyn he 
was gracious and explanatory, talking down to what he 
believed to be her mental level. He took it for granted 
that she was a fool because she could not express herself 
in words quite as glibly as he could. 

“The party system,” he assured her, defending his 

255 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


opinion against hers, ‘‘is a necessary stimulant to all 
departmental activity/' 

Then he bethought him that this was too allusive, 
too succinct for her intelligence. 

“What I mean is," he elaborated, “that the average 
politician requires a constant whip to his enthusiasm out- 
side the object that he is striving for. He is only hu- 
man. He needs some side issue to keep him keen on his 
way. Partizanship provides this.” 

“With the obvious result,” put in Dolly, “that being 
human, as you say, the side issue becomes the main.” 

“I am bound to confess that it frequently does.” 

After that Dolly guided the conversation into less 
exalted channels, and observed with the pride of a good 
hostess the adroit skill with which Oliver stripped the 
flesh from a partridge and subsequently asked for a sec- 
ond helping of fruit salad. 

Towards the end of the meal Evelyn determined to 
assert herself again. She had talked of lofty ideals in 
marriage in a manner that but for the unconquerable 
joyousness of her mood would have exacerbated Dolly to 
the point of tears. 

“If I ever marry,” said Oliver, “I shall choose a thor- 
oughly well-trained housekeeper — a woman who knows 
her job.” 

“And is housekeeping woman’s sole job, Mr. Mait- 
land?” 

“In the case of my wife — yes. In theory your view 
of woman’s rights is most commendable, Mrs. Attewell. 
In the severer tests of practice, however, the antiquated 
ideal holds water.” 

“Man shoots, woman cooks. Dreadful — dreadful!” 

“If man didn’t shoot, what would woman have to 
cook? No, don’t tell me that women have other ob- 
256 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


jects in life. When you come down to bed-rock they 
all cook, so to speak. Do I shock you? Woman is 
woman, and thank God for it V Then he turned to Dolly. 

‘'But speaking quite metaphorically, all women some- 
how cannot cook. You can,” he added under his breath. 

After dinner he asked if he might smoke out of doors. 
It was a perfect night, starlit, still and warm. 

“We might go for a little stroll,” said Dolly, leaning 
forward with a cigarette to her lips to be lighted. They 
were in the hall, and Evelyn with a newspaper was stand- 
ing under the lamp reading a speech by an expansive 
Bishop, recommended to her attention by Oliver a few 
minutes before. 

“I love walking at night.” 

“Is it — shan’t we be ?” asked Oliver, with a glance 

towards Evelyn. 

“No, no. She’s quite happy. I’ll just get a coat.” 

Presently they were walking round the house towards 
the gate which gave upon the orchard. Oliver looked 
down at Dolly now and again, observing with an almost 
trembling appreciation the perfect line of her hair sweep- 
ing her brow, half hiding the top of her little ear, sym- 
metrically coiled behind. Their talk soon died down, and 
presently they stopped at the wire fence, which bounded 
the orchard to watch the shrinking of the golden moon 
as she rose above the near horizon. For some moments 
they were perfectly still, rapt by the beauty of the night. 
Once Dolly looked up at her companion’s face. In that 
light it seemed very white and fine, and the big brow, 
which Evelyn admired from so scientific a standpoint, 
for Dolly but followed out the proportions of a splendid 
manhood. 

Oliver was so instantly sympathetic, so quick to ap- 
preciate her mood. For weeks past now she had been 

257 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


hurt and angry, and more depressed as well than she 
could have believed possible. And to-day in the sunshine 
of the afternoon and now at night — she was happy. She 
had forgotten her troubles ; only somewhere at the back 
of her mind, her anger lurked. All her pleasure at the 
moment centred in her companion. She had passed the 
latter half of the day living from minute to minute, not 
thinking of the next, by impulse. She was wildly ex- 
cited now, eager for whatever might happen, bent on fol- 
lowing her instinct still, alert to run along the lines of 
least resistance. Suddenly and in part unexpectedly she 
had been given a chance of enjoyment, and that was 
the end she had in view now. The means to this were 
almost immaterial. 

Her arm touched Oliver’s, and she thrilled, her heart 
beat quickly. 

They were quite still, and they both heard the snap- 
pings of twigs amongst the Scotch firs in the spinney 
below, the slow tread of someone approaching. 

‘"Listen,” whispered Dolly. “There’s someone there. 
Now we’ll catch him at last.” 

“Who?” 

“A man who thieves my chickens.” She took his arm 
spontaneously and squeezed it as she spoke. “I think 
I know who it is, but of course I’ve no proof. It would 
be lovely if we could catch him. He’s bound to come 
by here.” 

“Quickly then. Let’s get behind this tree.” 

He turned up his coat so that his white collar should 
not gleam. 

“Yes,” he said. “He’s coming up this way. What a 
lark!” 

There was an intense pleasure to her in feeling her lit- 
tle hand clasped tightly by his long lean fingers. One 
258 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


of them tapped periodically upon her knuckle — a, little 
friendly tap as though to reassure her. 

The moon was not quite high enough to show them, 
and the rustling footsteps quickened as the man reached 
the clearer ground beneath the orchard. In another 
moment they heard the creak of the fence as he pulled 
on a wire and bent to scramble through. Then his dim 
form loomed for a moment, hesitating, within a dozen 
feet. 

Suddenly Oliver sprang forward. 

''Now, my friend,” he said, "what’s your game?” 

Dolly could never make out exactly what happened 
after that. The man muttered something and seemed to 
duck away from the hand Oliver stretched out to grip 
him. Then he was up against the wire fence, at bay. 
There came to her a confusion of low sounds. She saw 
Oliver’s arm go out; she heard a growling curse as his 
antagonist reeled from the blow. Then there was a mo- 
ment of confusion and strengthening moonlight made 
their figures plain. The chicken thief had his arms 
round Oliver, and was trying to hurt him with his knee. 
There was a moment of tense wrestling, during which 
Oliver twisted his hip towards the man to take the foul 
blow. And then he had wrenched himself away and 
she saw his bent left arm swing round. She heard the 
impact of a second blow, and then the man sank back, 
half supported by the fence, and slid down upon the 
ground. 

Oliver, breathing quickly, and with sparkling eyes, 
came to her. 

"Did he touch you? Are you hurt?” she asked. 

"Not the very least little bit. Now what shall we do 
with him?” 

The man was rising painfully to his feet again. 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


“Let him go,” said Dolly. “Are you sure?” 

“No. It was lovely. You cut along,” he added to his 
late opponent, “or you’ll get it worse — much worse ; and 
quod as well. Hurry up. Over into the field there where 
I can see you.” 

“All right, mister. Gawd, you ’aven’t ’alf smashed 
my nose.” 

“Yes, you moved your head as I hit: and no doubt 
the bone’s broken. Cut along and get your missus to 
put it straight.” 

The man scrambled quickly over a gate near by, and 
made off across the adjoining field. 

“We mustn’t let this spoil our walk,” said Oliver. 
“This is a dear little wood. I want to explore it. Come 
along.” And he took Dolly’s arm. 

“Oliver, you did polish him off well — he deserved it.” 

“Good exercise.” 

To her great surprise Dolly had found her sensa- 
tions whilst watching the encounter distinctly pleasur- 
able. And though she did not think of it now, they 
were exactly similar to those she had experienced whilst 
watching Henry opening the packing-case. Man, in a 
moment of exertion, appealed to more senses in her than 
one. 

The little fight, one minute’s fierce and bitter struggle, 
the completeness of his victory, had assuaged Oliver’s 
uneasiness of mind. It had countervailed the regretted 
game of billiards on the previous night. He was not 
conscious of that, but his positive satisfaction now must 
have been influenced in part by the obliteration of the 
debt he owed himself. Moreover there was something 
to the good. He had thrashed this man with his fists, 
gloating over the triumph of his bodily skill ; his knuckles 
had crashed into the yielding flesh and bone. . . . But 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


on the same night he had also won in subtler strife. 
He had liked to think that he was humble enough to 
learn a lesson of a blackbird. The blackbird had been 
disappointed with the burnt match, but when he got the 
grape his pleasure must have been twofold. On that 
principle Oliver had acted. There was no particular 
reason why he should catch the eight o’clock train. He 
determined not to catch it. As soon as he was out of 
Dolly’s sight upon the road, he sauntered slowly on, 
and when he came near the station, sat in the hedge. 
When he heard the train draw to a standstill, he had 
risen and timed himself accurately to run breathless on 
to the bridge over the line just as the engine started again 
and panted out beneath him. There was no necessity for 
doing this — ^no one who had seen him would have been 
likely to report upon his actions — ^but he was something 
of an artist. He liked completeness for its own sake; 
and he earned his reward in the sympathy bestowed upon 
him by the cabman who drove him back to Needs, and 
who had seen his narrowly late arrival. 

Oliver had got to know Dolly in the last year. He 
was perfectly certain that in some way Henry had 
slighted her — in any case they must have quarrelled. He 
had made himself fascinating that afternoon with rare 
cunning. His time was running short. Before long, as 
he very well knew, it would be too late. The small 
worry which he kept in the background of his mind 
would develop soon. He must make hay while the 
sun shone. He had played Dolly like a fish. He had 
been intentionally brusque at the parting on the road. 
He had counted on her disappointment, and his reckoning- 
had been right. He had built upon her enhanced pleas- 
ure at his unexpected return. He was right again. This 
intellectual conquest was most flattering to his self-corn- 

261 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


placency ; but the fight, the fleshly struggle to which his 
mind came back with ever new delight — that was what 
pleased him most. Certainly that had been pure luck. 
He could never have arranged anything so inevitably 
fitting the moment. Dolly had seen him put out his 
strength. In a way he had fought for her as her cham- 
pion. . . . 

And it was an unusually lovely night. The heat of 
the day still lingered in the soft air. He was feeling 
gloriously strong. His body had been well and temper- 
ately worked all day, and at the day’s end he had eaten 
a fastidiously chosen meal, and drunk a little of delicious 
wine. Almost every physical sense in him was grati- 
fied. Everything had been appropriate and natural to 
the late summer’s day. The good food had been a 
symbol sacred to the deities of the earth and air. And 
the moon shone down. 

There was blood upon his hands: his body sweated 
with exertion. What mattered cleverness now and subtle 
calculations? He was a man. They went into the little 
wood, and presently sat down upon an earthy bank. 
They were in shadow. But near at hand a big Scotch 
fir raised its bare trunk silvered by the moon. A very 
little brook clattered from a distance. They heard the 
small sounds that come from earth at night. A light 
breeze stirred the leaves above them. They were both 
trembling a little. He knew that Dolly, too, was glad 
and excited. He could hear her quick breathing. With- 
out a word said he put his arms round her and held her 
close and turned her face to his. 


262 


CHAPTER XXIX 


O F all domestic occasions which bore the mark of 
Dolly’s direct superintendence, breakfast was as a 
rule the most successful. There was no effort in her 
housekeeping : she was never fussy, nor worried, nor par- 
ticularly busy. Her servants were no paragons, but she 
had a faculty for getting things done as she wanted them. 
Her poorer neighbours sighed with envy, and amongst 
each other snorted their contempt for her monied ease. 
Within their imaginations there was but one sort of 
lubricant to make wheels run smoothly. And each in 
turn was uncomfortably aware that with the whole morn- 
ing given to laborious preparation their luncheon tables 
inevitably lacked the distinguished touch that was so 
palpable at Needs. . Dolly had a flair for crowning strokes 
besides the ordering of essentials. In arrangement in- 
deed Dolly would make a principle of what others would 
describe as a garnish. 

Breakfast, then, was peculiarly an expression of her 
own disposition. The dishes were small. There was an 
abundance of fruit and flowers. The table was never 
oppressively crowded. On summer mornings it was set 
by the open window : a heavier, cosier meal in winter was 
spread within the glow of the fire. And winter and 
summer alike, the white panelling and the long windows 
made the room bright and fresh. Comfort was suggested 

263 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


by the old mahogany sideboard and good cheer by china 
of Indian red and white. Dolly felt that in this room 
she began the day well. 

But no delight of environment could conquer cir- 
cumstance. The morning in question was dull. Dolly 
had slept badly, and she mistrusted the light of enthu- 
siasm in Evelyn’s eye. The latter had a way of dis- 
cussing her letters as she opened them : and Dolly found 
the task of conversation unendurably fatiguing. 

‘TVe neglected these dear people for months,” said 
Evelyn, handing over a printed slip to which was pinned 
a long letter in a large and vigorous hand. “It’s the 
Good Friends League of Nurses — much the same prin- 
ciple as the Girls’ Friendly, but particularly adapted.” 

“I’m sure it does good work, and supplies a long- 
felt want.” 

“It was started ten years ago. I do wish I could in- 
terest you in it, Dolly. You’re not very encouraging. 
I should much like you on the committee, and you 
would speak well, I am convinced.” 

Dolly sighed. 

“It’s like this, Evelyn,” she said, “I want love in a 
cottage. You want love in a cottage hospital.” 

“Aren’t you rather selfish? But — ah — I shouldn’t 
say that.” 

She put out a hand and touched Dolly’s arm. 

“Do you think I’m blind? If I could only make 
you trust me, dear.” 

“Have I ever led you to suppose that I don’t trust 
you ?” 

Dolly was flushed and angry, but Evelyn's missionary 
spirit was not to be subdued. 

“/ know. I’m much older than you, dear. I’ve been 
married many years. You really think I cannot see 
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that there is a little — difference? I know what men 
are. But be patient, dear. He will come round. I have 
known Henry longer than you. I know how provoking 
he can be. Have patience, and you will have love in what 
you call your cottage.’' 

‘Thanks. But what I was trying to point out when 
I said that I wanted ” 

She could get no further than that. She was choked 
by anger at Evelyn’s presumption and by the desire 
for tears. She kept her eyes upon her plate. Fortunately 
at that moment, Evelyn had recognised the beloved hand- 
writing of Miss Baker upon another of her numerous 
envelopes and was soon eagerly immersed in its con- 
tents. Dolly hurried on with her breakfast. There were 
no letters that were of the least interest for her — merely 
a note from Henry saying that he would come home in a 
fortnight’s time, and telling her to meet him in London. 
Michael, it appeared, was going to stay out of England. 
In the meantime, in order to have some occupation which 
Evel}^ might refrain from interrupting she opened the 
paper and began to read headlines. For some little time 
she found nothing to hold her attention half so deeply 
as Miss Baker’s irrelevancies about a proposed parlour- 
maid engrossed Evelyn’s. The latter read, sipped her tea, 
and occasionally put neat little cubes of bread and mar- 
malade into her mouth. These she had prepared before- 
hand, so that she could leave one hand free. Evelyn 
was always methodical. 

Dolly watched her absently for a moment or two, and 
then turned back to her newspaper. 

She had come to a page chiefly devoted to law reports. 
It did not promise much of interest, but her curiosity 
was piqued by the word Divorce which stood out in 
flagrant capitals at the head of a column. She looked 

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twice at the name of Maitland which was prominent 
there. It might be some relation of Oliver. . . . She 
began to read. It was an usual case enough. The re- 
spondent was a Mrs. Linelly. Dolly had never heard 
of her. The co-respondent was Edgar Herbert Oliver 
Tyse Maitland. She read through the names again. It 
must be some relation. She had never heard him speak 
of Edgar Maitland. She was reluctant to read more 
but -she must. In a letter she had from Oliver the 
previous day he had said that he was worried and un- 
happy, that he was being persecuted by enemies. He had 
not been at all definite, but had begged her to believe no 
ill of him. His letter was strangely incoherent, hinting 
and hurried. Dolly had not been able to understand 
it at all . . . she could not think why the print was so 
difficult to read. The paper kept moving in jerks. She 
looked down involuntary and then sideways at Evelyn. 
Could she see that her hands were trembling? She must 
read, she must read it all. Some relative of Oliver had 
got into a commonplace scrape. Oliver must be a 
favourite name in the family. Her mind became ob- 
sessed by side-issues. . . . They called one Oliver and 
the cousin — or it might be a brother, though she had 
never heard of a brother — had been christened Edgar 
Herbert Tyse, and then they had slipped in an Oliver 
penultimately to please someone: or because there had 
always been an Oliver in the family. Perhaps they had 
exchanged a Roland for an Oliver— and the first catch 
of a little laugh in her throat strangled itself and died. 
She steadied her gaze upon the column and read. She 
saw the name of a Q.C. whom she knew, an old friend 
of her mother’s — it was curious that his name should 
not have stood out to catch her eye. He was counsel 
for the petitioner. She began involuntarily to think 
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about him and how he brought her chocolates when she 
was a little girl. . . . Back again to cold print and pres- 
ent facts. It appeared that the guilty couple had first 
met in London two years ago. There was mention of 
the West Indies . . . and Dolly’s eyes grew large. What 
a fool she was to pretend that it might be a relation, 
and to hoodwink herself because she had not known of 
his other names. It must be — it was Oliver. The case 
was perfectly plain, a decree nisi had been pronounced. 
It was Oliver. For months past he must have known 
what was going to happen. And last week — on the 
evening he had missed the train — he had said nothing 
at all. Everything had seemed well with him. He had 
not been in the least careful of his own concerns. 

Never a word from him to-day. 

Presently Dolly became aware that Evelyn was ask- 
ing for another cup of tea. 

‘‘How pale you are, dear,” she said, “aren’t you well ?” 

“Rather so — so. I had a wretched night.” 

Evelyn neatly folded up her napkin as she invariably 
did, and slipping an elastic band round her bundle of 
letters, rose. 

“You’d better lie down,” she suggested, “and let me 
read to you. My letters can wait.” 

“It’s most good of you,” answered Dolly, “but I’ve 
a very busy morning. My headache can wait too.” 

And not wishing to risk the further trials at persuasion 
which were bound to come, she took her paper and hur- 
ried away. 

In her own room Dolly read again the Divorce re- 
port, with its cold euphemisms, its official humbug. 

And Elsie Faucet was coming over to tea, and could 
not help but say something. Elsie would shake her silly 
little head and complain that she had been taken in. 

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And Dolly would have to agree and discuss the news 
from her point of view and would have to be careful to 
say what was expected of her, be conveniently horrified 
and shocked in a purely impersonal manner. She must 
be quite ordinary, just as if Oliver had never missed 
his train. 

In the meantime she must summon courage and find 
Evelyn and tell her the news with appropriate surprise 
and disgust — ‘Took what Fve just found in the 
paper. . . And she must do it so well that Evelyn 
would not connect the news with the pallor she had re- 
marked on. She ought to have shown the presence of 
mind to tell her then and there. However, it really didn’t 
matter. What did really matter? 

“It’s the very last thing I should have expected,” said 
Elsie Faucet in the afternoon. “He seemed such a nice 
man. And to think that only last week he was staying 
with us, as brazen as possible — never a hint! And the 
man’s an unspeakable cad.” 

“Perhaps,” said Dolly, “you never know — he was 
made a scapegoat. You hear of things like that. The 
woman — who is she?” 

And Dolly turned away to pour hot water into the tea- 
pot. The kettle rattled on its stand as she fumbled with 
it. She had got all the necessary conversation by heart 
during the morning. Given a known subject there was 
seldom any doubt as to what Elsie Faucet would say 
about it, and Dolly spoke her lines with sufficient anima- 
tion and assurance. 

“Ah, but I was going to tell you,” Elsie went on. 
“We heard from Gerald this morning. Poor boy : he is 
so cut up about it. He was so fond of Mr. Maitland. 
You know what a good trusting old chap it is. It appears 
that he had promised to marry this woman later on, 
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but his grandfather got to hear about it, and threatened 
to cut him off if he did.” 

“And so he’s not going to?” 

“No. That’s just it. Gerald says Mr. Maitland has 
treated the poor creature shamefully. Some time ago he 
was with him when he cut her dead. Of course Gerald 
didn’t know anything about this then. We're so afraid 
that he’s lent him money — some large sum — at one time 
or another. Of course, he won’t say anything about it.” 

“Is this really true — ^about the grandfather?” 

“Oh, yes. The old man’s been swearing all round 
London at the top of his voice.” 

“Then one can hardly choose between them. Oh — ^the 
meanness of it — ^the old devil !” 

“My dear Dolly ! You couldn’t expect General What’s- 
his-name to receive the lady with open arms. Such a ter- 
rible disgrace for his family as it is. But, of course, 
that’s not the point. He ought to marry her — ^money or 
no money — there’s no doubt about that. And he would 
if he had, a spark of chivalry in him. Gerald says he’s 
disappeared — probably gone abroad.” 

""And the woman?” 

""The poor thing’s almost penniless and hasn’t a soul 
to turn to. She was a little fool and — ^that’s really all. 
I wish we could do something.” 

Dolly was sitting now with her hands on either side of 
her face. 

""The cur!” she suddenly exclaimed, ""the cur! What 
does your husband say?” 

""Graham says the next time he sees him he’ll thrash 
him in public. And he will too. Oh, Dolly, it makes me 
feel as though I’d trodden on a snake without knowing 
it. Come and take me round your garden and we’ll 

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forget all about it. How have your late peaches been 
doing?” 

Dolly winced involuntarily and rose. 

‘‘Tell me about Dick and the baby,” she said, “lePs 
talk about something clean and — and jolly.” 

Late that night Dolly sat by her bedroom window 
until she was stiff and numb. She forced her memory 
relentlessly back over the past eighteen months, and shud- 
dering, peered into the future, dark and miserable as the 
night sky which loomed before her eyes. What a pitiful 
fool she had been. And yet in the first instance she had 
been driven by Fate and overwhelmed by powers beyond 
her ken. . . . Were all men fiends? She thought of 
Henry with his calculating meanness. She had believed 
she loved him. From the first day they had met her im- 
pulsive heart had opened to him, ready to give and give 
and give again. She could see him now as she saw him 
first, leaning on the back of a chair, looking wistfully 
out into the quiet street where the fleeting sunshine of 
earliest spring cast purple shadows and turned to palest 
gold the drably painted stone wall opposite. Then in a 
flash she had seemed to read him and his essential shar- 
ing in her love of colour. He had snatched, she thought, 
for comfort at the one glint of light in a dull day’s 
duller stage. It was that and the looks of him. And 
how soon had she forgotten that wistful gaze, lost sight 
of his sympathy with her in things impalpable. And she 
had come to know that she had been mistaken. Really, 
he could have cared nothing for the sunshine on the ugly 
stones. But his good looks remained. And she had been 
content. She had not especially sought his admiration, 
she had looked for nothing but his companionship, his 
love. She would give him everything, recklessly, de- 
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votedly. And he had taken her gifts and had ground 
them with his heel and laughed. In the material way also 
she had loved to think that hers was the giving. And 
all the while he had mocked her in his heart for being 
generous with the money that was not hers. Why had he 
married her ? At what period had the knowledge come to 
him that he was the heir, not she ? It scarcely mattered. 

And then in her wild anger and the sorrow that was 
its veiled part, she had allowed herself to be tricked into 
caring for — that other. She had babbled to herself about 
Reality. And Reality had come back and hit her in the 
face. 

What was there to look forward to? 

The breeze was rising. Dim shapes of grey moved 
lumbering and dilatory across the sky, ceaselessly pro- 
ceeding, sombre form in sombre form enclosed, and 
gloom in gloom. The wind shrieked thinly in the chim- 
ney and miserably whined about the house. . . . She 
was alone, terribly alone, she had said to herself, and 
yet — ^and yet — the howling wind and the never-ending 
clouds which drifted there were comforting. She rose 
and put a cloak about her shoulders and opened the 
window wider, and held it firm so that it could not rat- 
tle; and she put out her head so that the smell of earth 
came to her, cold and sweet. There was the wet earth 
and the darkling sky. And some part of her was one 
with them. Out there were neither lying nor riches nor 
human love, only self bound up in a vaster and uncon- 
jectionable self. From the earth she had come and — 
there was the earth and the sky and the wind. There 
was no coincidence of beauty, no glittering stars nor 
moonlight upon trees, nor wan flowers to give their 
distinctive scents. There would have been for her no 
solace in radiance or colour. It was night, plain night. 

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She was quite alone and she was aware of nothing but 
her mysterious kinship with the earth and air. 

Awhile all sorrow and all remorse, all human dealings 
were gone from her; objective consciousness had paled 
before the dawn of a momentary understanding. 

And Dolly went wonderingly to sleep, forgetful and 
inspired. 


272 


CHAPTER XXX 


F or some time past there had been an increasing 
temptation to Dolly to let things slide, to drift, to 
await whatever chance befel instead of asserting herself 
and making things to happen and, when possible, to 
forestall chance. Since the night when she sat by the 
open window, however, she had determined to act. She 
had realised then that she was playing the coward. 
There was no happiness to be got without seeking for 
it, and, when found, fighting for it. All content without 
effort, she told herself, was but animal content. She 
must strike out a line for herself and it would not be 
that of least resistance. She must be brave. She had 
only herself to depend on. 

Going up to London to meet Henry she faced the 
future without anxiety, but' also without much hope. 
Ever since he had been abroad the tone of his letters 
had been studiously affectionate. She wondered, though 
quite vaguely, why he had made such a special point of 
her coming to London. He had given no explanation, and 
as she wished to be in London for a few days, she had 
acquiesced. 

For a part of the way Dolly travelled in the same car- 
riage with Graham Faucet, who was bound upon some 
errand to a neighbouring town. She found him less 
jocular than usual, -prone to talk of his worries. For 

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his part, Graham felt unaccountably constrained. He 
was aware that some change had taken place in Dolly, 
though he could not decide wherein it lay. She seemed 
harder — for one thing — and her expression had altered. 
Talking it over with his wife later on he came to the con- 
clusion that she was a little defiant. Insensibly this 
change reacted upon him and he felt strangely gloomy. 
Thus it was that he came to talk of the troublous side of 
a farmer's life. He felt nervously shy also of men- 
tioning Henry, though Dolly had told him when they 
met at the station the reason of her j.oumey, carrying 
the war (in a manner of speaking) into the enemy's 
country. On the whole, much as he liked Dolly, he was 
glad when his own journey was ended. He thought that 
for friends who had lately grown intimate their con- 
versation had been curiously difficult, and though he 
had not been exactly ill at ease, he had been forced to 
think before speaking. 

‘‘Give my love to Henry," he said as he looked back 
into the carriage from the platform, “and Michael too, 
if you see him. Mind you let us know when you come 
back." 

He waved his hat as the train began to move and 
Dolly, with perfect self-possession, smiled an answer. 
Then as she sat back the smile went, and with quiet de- 
liberation she took up a book and began to read. After 
a while, however, her eyes roved from it to the window, 
the rain-blurred fields and the low hedges that divided 
them. She thought about Graham. She said to her- 
self that something had happened to upset him. She had 
never known him such bad company. 

Henry, who had crossed the Channel in the small 
hours of the morning, met her as he had arranged at St. 
Pancras. Up to the last moment Dolly had stedfastly 
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kept her mind from the imminent prospect. She was 
indifferent, but she had to keep telling herself that she 
was indifferent. By exerting her will she contrived to 
look forward without trepidation. Then at last came the 
long succession of tunnels and airshafts — mournful day- 
light, darkness, light again — ^which told her of her im- 
mediate approach to the terminus. She was alone. She 
gathered her belongings together, hurriedly set her hat 
right by a little glass beneath the rack, pouted out her 
lips against her veil and sat down again, shaking but with 
a set face. 

And then there came the slow emerging beneath the 
huge roof of the station, the hollow clangour, shouts, 
whistles . . . and there was Henry, waving, neat, buoy- 
antly healthy, sunburned, better looking than ever, 
obviously pleased to see her. And when they had got into 
a hansom and were driving away to the distant hotel 
where Henry chose to stay, he turned and looked at her, 
his hand on her knee. 

‘'You don’t look over fit,” he said — ^“a bit white. Tir- 
ing journey, of course. A little mountain air wouldn’t 
have done you any harm. However, we’ll see what can 
be done.” And he chuckled. 

“Why, what do you mean?” 

“You wait a bit, Dolly. Devilish impatient you are — - 
always were.” 

Henry being pleasantly mysterious was quite new to 
Dolly. She suddenly realised how very tired she was. 
She lay back in the cab and began to answer questions 
about the farm. She tried to be as vivacious as possi- 
ble ; she tried to keep talking incessantly with the singu- 
larly vain intention of keeping Henry from an inevitable 
subject. . . . 


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It was not until they sat down to dinner that Henry 
spoke of Oliver Maitland : and to Dolly's immense relief 
he seemed little disposed to say much. 

‘Tt just shows you how mistaken you can be in a fel- 
low," he said. ‘T'm sorry to say it, but he's a cad. 
He ought certainly to have married her. In any case 
it's a terrible disgrace for the Linelly family. Opens 
your eyes, doesn't it?" 

Dolly agreed, and said most of what Elsie Faucet 
had said. This saved her the trouble of thinking and 
was certain to be right in Henry's eyes. The latter, 
however, was in too good a temper to expatiate upon 
his disillusionment. He was angry and Oliver's latest 
escapade focussed his mind upon all manner of small in- 
cidents in the past which at the time of their several 
occurrences he had refused to contemplate. His mem- 
ory was jogged. He recalled innumerable lies which 
Oliver had told him. They must have been lies. He saw 
now what a braggart the man was, too. . . . Well, he 
had found him out at last. He was a fool to have been 
so long deceived. The blow to his vanity was the hard- 
est to bear. He had been so proud of Oliver; and all the 
while the man must have been looking at him tongue in 
cheek. And Henry had taken him all for granted, had 
been a faithful friend, had never suspected. . . . 

'‘Oh, come now," thought Henry to himself. 'T al- 
ways knew he was a queer fish, really and truly : only I 
suppose when one likes a man one makes allowances." 

But, of course, he had never dreamed that Oliver 
would be capable of this. 

“Only shows you what a fellow 'll do for money," 
he said to Dolly. “He came over to see you the other day. 
didn't he? And that was just a little while before, and 
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never the smallest inkling of what he knew would hap- 
pen, ril be bound.” 

Everybody, thought Dolly, seemed to have been struck 
first by this remarkable fact. 

To her, it was quite obvious that Henry, without so 
much as hinting an admission of past occurrences, was 
anxious to be extremely nice. He had got a box at a 
theatre and though she was genuinely tired, she made no 
demur when he told her of this little surprise, thus ac- 
counting for their early meal. He was sure it was a play 
she would like : personally he didn’t care about such high 
falutin stuff. “But you’re interested in all that sort of 
thing — queer taste : but come along. I dare say it won’t 
be so bad.” 

Throughout the evening she hardly looked at the 
stage. Henry paid close attention and listened to every 
word said. He disliked it profoundly, but meant having 
something for his money. Dolly sat back in the box and 
kept her eyes on him. The red of his firm lips, the sleepy 
grey of his eyes were intolerably reminiscent of the first 
days of their married life. She noted the dead black of 
his coat in the shadow, and the dazzling white of his 
collar caught by the light from the stage. There never 
was a man, she thought, who looked so thoroughly nice 
in the considered ugliness of evening clothes. It was 
a refinement of pain to her to watch the impatient little 
twists he gave his moustache. He had his own way of 
doing it — with his first and second fingers and immedi- 
ately afterwards he would stroke the angle of his jaw. 
Such little things as these had been her loving pleasure 
a year ago. . . . 

And it was so completely obvious that he had some- 
thing he wanted to say, and was holding it back. Henry 
with something up his sleeve was a problem. She was 

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exceedingly anxious to know what the surprise was, if 
only for the reason that it might shed some new light on 
the character which she had supposed plain. This curios- 
ity helped her to endure what would otherwise have been 
an intolerable situation. 

"‘Do you remember me speaking of Burshall?” asked 
Henry, on the way back to the hotel. 

“Yes, I think I do. Wasn’t he at school with you? 
You didn’t like him.” 

“I didn’t, but he’s not really a bad chap at all. I ran 
across him at Geneva the other day. He’s -improved a 
good deal. Doing very well — he is. He’s got his father’s 
business now and making it pay like one o’clock.” 

Dolly sighed. There was nothing new about this. 
Last year Burshall had been a vulgar little cad and Henry 
was wondering how he got into the club and why any- 
one put up with him. But now he was making money. 

“You’ll probably see him to-morrow,” Henry added. 
“I thought we might give him a mouthful of lunch. He’s 
helping me — in something I’m doing,” and he chuckled 
again. “You’ll know all about it to-morrow.” 

Dolly was by now too tired to bother about Henry’s 
plans. It was enough for the moment that he was anxious 
to please her. Tossed as she had been from one disil- 
lusionment to another, torn by conflicting doubts, and 
hopeless when she tried to imagine the future, dreading 
the sheer physical loneliness which an estrangement 
would involve, she was glad. He wanted to be nice. 
He was trying to be nice. Probably he was sorry for 
what he had done. There was no return of her love for 
him. Her heart was quite untouched. But she felt that 
if she was careful she need not be so lonely, so miserably 
and helplessly lonely in the future. She found herself 
coldly interested in Henry: he was worth observing. 
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She must be content to spend the rest of her life in a 
museum, watching a specimen. Now and again she could 
add an explanatory note to the label. Henry seemed 
bent on making love to her, which was rather trying: 
but resistance seemed hardly worth while. Every en- 
dearment and every caress twisted her mind back from 
the indifference of to-day to the old impulsive fervours 
of a year ago. But it was all rather fatiguing than 
definitely painful. She was glad they had been to a 
theatre: that filled up time. And something or other 
was to be done to-morrow. Burshall was coming to 
lunch with them — ^and that would fill up more time. 
And so for the present that was her goal, from day to day 
to keep occupied and busy. How thankful she was now 
that Henry had asked her to meet him in London. . , . 

In the morning Henry was more solicitous than ever. 

Dolly had spent a restless night and he begged her to 
breakfast in bed. He fussed about in and out of her 
room, making sure that the hotel servants brought every- 
thing she could require. He discovered that she had 
brought no eau de Cologne in her dressing-case and 
immediately sent out for some. Every now and again, 
however, within her sight he pulled out his watch. This 
she rightly took as the reminder, which Henry could not 
possibly resist, that although he was anxious for her to 
take care of herself, have breakfast in bed, rest and make 
up as far as possible for the bad night, yet he had made 
arrangements for the day and it would be a pity if these 
should be disturbed. 

Directly she had definitely risen, he asked her what on 
earth she was doing and begged her to be certain that 
she was fit for what might prove a rather trying day. 
She was wise enough not to take him at his word. 

It was not until they were in an unnecessary cab driv- 

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ing from one byway of Piccadilly to another that Henry 
explained. 

‘T thought we’d run round and see our new house,” 
he said. 

Dolly stared at his laughing eyes for a moment and 
grew white. 

‘‘See our new house,” she repeated without question. 

“Yes, only a little place, you know. I got it through 
old Burshall. In fact he’s going to meet us there! It 
belongs to an uncle of his. I say — you look queer.” 

Dolly had an insane desire to throw open the doors of 
the cab and to jump out. She felt stifled, on the verge 
of hysteria. 

“It’s nothing,” she said at last, “only your — surprise 
rather takes my breath. Let me be a moment. It’s ” 

“Wait till you see it. You may not like it, though I 
fancy you will. It’s close here, off Curzon Street.” 

Dolly fought down her tears. Of all the swift emo- 
tions that tormented her with their sudden convergence 
on the moment — ^bitter regret, fiendish amusement, sheer 
stark surprise, and joy — the best of them had its way 
with her. Henry was Henry still. Even now she knew 
that his lips must be trembling with information about 
rent and rates. But he was trying to do something to 
please her, not merely being agreeable or affectionate. 
He was doing something he didn’t like for her sake. She 
couldn’t speak. Almost involuntarily she put her hand 
on his and clutched it. 

He saw the tears in her eyes and there was a dis- 
tinct and shameful tingling in his own. They both 
turned their heads — rather ridiculously. 

“All right, old girl,” he said. “Glad you like the idea.” 

The shortened morning sped quickly. It was not the 
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house Dolly would have chosen. She had not the small- 
est desire to shine in the reflection from a fine address. 
But it was a very small place and would suit the purpose. 

There was something very fascinating to her about 
the exploration of an empty house. Insensibly her taste 
was changing, partly no doubt under the tutorship of 
Gerald Faucet. She liked the bareness and the abundant 
light in the little, well-proportioned rooms. Leaving 
Burshall, whom they had met upon the doorstep, to 
Henry, she wandered up and downstairs, mentally fur- 
nishing her castle: here a cabinet and there a chair — 
she must get Gerald to help her again, and she would 
take Bella Keene for long, exhausting excursions, hunt- 
ing for Queen Anne tables and corner cupboards with 
inlaid shells. There was some china at Needs which had 
been crowded into obscurity. She would have it here, 
in the low drawing-room within the direct light of the 
bow window which jutted out, supported by old green 
pillars flush with the railings below. Somewhere at 
home, put away in a drawer, there were a dozen or so 
of modern etchings — ^bridges, houses, villages, alley- 
ways — ^how well they would look upon the stairs. . . . 

Then Burshall compelled her attention to the kitchen 
range, whilst Henry asked uninspiring questions about 
the roof and drains. 

Burshall she immediately summed up as a fat and 
agreeable little animal. His most apparent desire was to 
discover if she could be shocked. He had a selection of 
rather clever stories to test this potentiality in her. He 
admired himself very much for his qualities. 

‘T always say what I like, you know, Mrs. Wedlaw,” 
he remarked by way of complacent apology ; *'you mustn’t 
mind me. I’m always like that. Old John Milnes — the 
big tea man, you know — said to me the other day, ^Bur’ 

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— ^all my friends call me Bur, Mrs. Wedlaw — ^'Bur, you 
ought to be muzzled.’ Bit of a dog, you see. Poor old 
John loves a bad pun. Now you and your husband must 
come and have something to eat with me. No — nonsense, 
Wedlaw,” as Henry expostulated, ‘‘always stand lunch 
after a deal. Business. Fll tell the caretaker to whistle 
a hansom. Damn, though, we can’t all get into a han- 
som. If I was only a little less fat. Well, well, it must 
be a growler. Where shall it be? Raphael’s? — Sounds 
bad, but ’t isn’t really this time of day — or the Carlton? 
Let’s go to the Carlton.” 

At lunch^ Burshall, choosing the appropriate moment, 
was rather unmerciful to Henry on the subject of Oliver 
Maitland. 

“Remember,” he said. “I told you at Paddington 
that day — only you wouldn’t listen. He did come home 
the year before.” 

“I dare say.” 

Nothing could put Henry out just then. He felt pleas- 
antly virtuous and expansive; and good wine preceded 
by a somewhat vehement cocktail assured his friendliness 
towards Burshall. 

“Oh, I dare say,” he said, “man’s a scoundrel. What 
was he doing?” 

“Philandering or engineering some ramp, I suppose. 
He tried to interest me in a scheme of his. Plausible ! 
Don’t you make any mistake about that. However, he 
let drop Holgarth’s name, and that was enough for me. 
Of course, Holgarth hadn’t been shown up in those days ; 
but I knew a bit, I can tell you. There was always some- 
thing about Maitland. . . . Remember him at school 
that day Fuzzy won the racquets? No days like school- 
days— eh? That’s what I always say. School days are 
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the best time of a fellow’s life. You bet they are, 
Mrs. Wedlaw.” 

For a minute or two the conversation declined upon 
more or less sentimental reminiscence, and Dolly tried 
very diligently to allow the neighbouring tables to absorb 
her attention. 

Presently, however, the inevitable name cropped up 
once more, and Dolly could not force herself to ignore 
the conversation. 

“Oh, he always was a clever devil was Maitland,” 
Burshall was saying. “But he’s overreached himself 
now. Oh, no, I don’t mean the Linelly affair — 'Novo- 
tenax.” 

Henry opened his mouth to speak, and only stared. 

“Why, what had he to do with that ?” Dolly asked. 

“To do with it? He was it.” 

“Well, I’m damned,” said Henry. “He .told me, the 
last time I saw him, he had shares in it, and then some 
time back he wrote and wanted to sell them.” 

“So I should think,” laughed Burshall. “You didn’t 
buy? No? That’s all right. Not but that the stuff 
was sound — it was. And it would have gone on paying 
quite comfortably if it had been properly run.” 

“What happened then? I’ve been abroad some time, 
you know.” 

“You didn’t see the case then? It was like this. They 
advertised that they’d give fifty quid to anyone who 
would show that the stuff didn’t act — ^mend a pot or 
something after carrying out the directions. Well, some- 
one or other claimed the reward and they tried to back 
out. There was another case almost exactly like it a 
few years ago, and there the defendants pleaded the 
Gaming Act. Hawkins tried the case and pooh-poohed 
the idea. Then they appealed on the ground that the 

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advertisement was a mere puff and not meant sincerely. 
But they said they^d deposited a thousand pounds in the 
bank for the purpose of meeting possible claims and got 
sat on again. Well, after that case the Novo-tenax 
people ought to have known better. They seem to have 
borne it in mind inasmuch as they didn’t deposit the 
money in the bank. But they lost their case and the 
whole concern’s gone — pf!” and Burshall waved a fat 
hand. 

‘T heard Gerald Faucet say Novo-tenax was exactly 
the same as his own cement,” said Dolly. 

‘T expect it was too,” and Henry stared again with 
his mouth slightly agape. “Ah, I know, I know, I showed 
Maitland some of it one day. I believe it was the very 
day he came back last year. Yes, it was. No doubt it 
was the same stuff.” 

“Stole the idea, of course. I wonder what happened 
about the sugar.” 

“What was that?” asked Henry. 

“It purported to be a scheme for working up the 
sugar trade in the West Indies. He was trying to get 
capital. I wonder if he succeeded. I’d he glad to know 
— I really should. Ah, well — 3, wrong ’un, a wrong ’un 
right through, and a charming fellow too when it came 
to that.” 

Burshall looked quite sad for a moment. 


284 


CHAPTER XXXI 


D olly was happy. ‘Take what comes; take what 
comes,” were the words which framed themselves 
and sounded, insistent, in her ears. Hers was her life 
to live. In the past she had tried to share it. Solitary 
joys had been unknown to her. There had been no 
pleasure to her in anything she could not halve. In all 
relations of life, from the ridiculous to the sublime, she 
had wished Henry to take his part in any happy experi- 
ence. In the very first day she had run to fetch him that 
he too might see some exquisite effect of cloud and sky : 
or she had pulled him by the sleeve to share some dazzling 
glimpse of the garden from between the trees. She could 
not bear to think that Henry missed anything that she 
enjoyed. 

But it had all failed. It seemed to her now that her 
whole outlook had been undermined by the established 
doctrine of unselfishness. Once she had been unselfish, 
but childhood’s peremptory discipline, with Others 
First as its refrain, had never quite imbedded itself in 
her nature. During the past week especially she had 
formulated an idea the germ of which had always been 
present at the back of her mind, an idea of Self as a 
priceless gift, whose ownership should be sacred and 
inviolable. The essentials of self-forgetfulness were to 
be striven for as always, and attained if possible: but 

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they did not comprehend the absolute annihilation of 
being. 

For the future she must depend upon strength and 
resolution. And these were qualities which it had been 
the business of her education — religious or otherwise — 
however tortuously, to deprecate. ''Be strong’': "Be 
resolute and persevering” — yes ! millions of copybooks 
must in effect repeat the message in proverbial perpetuity. 
But people had never lived by maxims. They lived by 
the interpretation of maxims. And the interpreters were 
false. Side by side with platitudes about courage and 
resource, vigour and decision, had been the gentler, easier 
lesson of submission — more palatable to the lazy-minded. 
But Dolly had never wholly given in. She had never 
lost her child’s faculty for rebellion. And now, in the 
final relegation of an accepted creed, she found happi- 
ness ; in her active discontent, peace of mind. 

Resolution of a rather uncommon order was needed 
at the moment. Dolly had rehearsed again and again 
the saying to Henry of what she had to say. She had 
now come to the conclusion that rehearsal was a mistake. 
In the light of her determination to fend courageously 
for herself, she saw that it was best to speak coldly and 
plainly. For though her heart had been momentarily 
touched by Henry’s sudden access of generosity and his 
desire to please, her intelligence had not been blinded. 
She might have said to herself, "There, it’s all right 
now. I was mistaken. I must judge him by this and 
not by all those incidents in the past, which are now 
definitely cancelled.” And if she had been of flabbier 
stuff, and easier-going disposition, she would have said 
it and temporarily believed it, and she would have gone 
on and lived her life that way, until the silly optimism 
was at length broken, and with it all vitality, and indeed 
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all power of true realisation. But she would not lull 
herself in any semblance of a security so unreliable. It 
might be that Henry was alive to what he had done 
before he went away, and that he intended, consistently, 
to make amends. But with so set a character as his, 
Dolly had little hope that its dregs should turn out after 
all to be mere froth. She would see. And if in course 
of time, she forgot or forgave the past, then there would 
be good cause for it. 

They had returned from London. Workmen were 
already in the new house and Dolly was looking forward 
to spending part of the winter there. Needs was rather 
dreary. 

Henry was in a particularly good humour. For a 
first year the place had not caused him a serious loss; 
and the bailiff looked confidently to a serene future. 

One evening after dinner, they talked about Michael. 

“Sometimes he moons about all day by himself,” said 
Henry. “He gets fits of depression, and then there’s no 
doing anything with him.” 

“He ought to marry. He wants taking out of him- 
self.” 

“And then there’d be a chance of somebody to hand 
on the name.” 

Henry liked to think that such succession was of 
potentially historic importance. 

Dolly was kneeling by the fire, her hands stretched out 
to the blaze. Now she drew them in and gripped the 
top of the brass fender. She turned to Henry. 

“So far as that goes” — she paused, and then — “I’m 
going to have a baby.” 

“What!” 

Henry leaned forward from the comer of the sofa 
and put his hand upon her shoulder. 


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‘‘I am/’ 

“Well done, old girl — well done! I say — how — ^long 
have you known?” 

“Only now,” she rose, so that her face was in shadow, 
and stood looking down at him. “Quite an event, isn’t 
it?” and she laughed a little. 

“By Jove, this is great,” said Henry with satisfaction. 
“Good for you, Dolly. You do take it coolly. I should 
have thought ” 

“It has happened before, you know, though not to 
me. It’s quite an ordinary proceeding, though painful, 
one gathers.” 

“Oh, I say, you know,” said Henry in mild rebuke, 
“it’s not a joking matter. Here — come here.” 

This was inevitable, and Dolly sat down on the floor 
in front of him. Henry put his hand under her chin 
and lifted up her face and bent down to it, kissing her. 

“Don’t you hope it’s a boy?” he asked. 

“Well, no; to be honest, I want the other sort. You’d 
find a boy a great handful.” 

“Oh, I want a boy,” said Henry. 

Surprisingly little more was said on the subject that 
night. But Henry began to show a persistent regard for 
Dolly’s health. Was she sure that her window was not 
too widely open? And she must take great care not to 
exert herself too much. Himting would be out of the 
question, of course. He was already growing fussy in 
a quite middle-aged way. Dolly wondered where he 
had picked up his little implied knowledge. She sup- 
posed that Graham Faucet would have discussed rudi- 
mentary obstetrics. Dear old chap, he would point out 
the comparative congruities between Elsie and his heifers, 
and he would do it with solemn enthusiasm, proud of his 
sound knowledge. ... 

288 


CHAPTER XXXII 


T here was nothing fine about Henry’s detestation 
of illness and pain. It was purely selfish. He 
craved an ordinary easy life, he feared the responsibility 
that any sickness entailed upon him. He told himself 
that he was very fond of Dolly, and that it would be 
grievous if anything went wrong, but what he really 
dreaded was the fuss and bother. He hated to know 
that he must be careful of her. 

As the time drew near, Graham Faucet and others 
glibly assured him that child-bearing was not a disease; 
it was a wholesome and normal occurrence, they kept 
saying. This was irritating. If you were in pain and 
in danger of your life you were to all intents and for 
all purposes ill, just as you were if you had pneumonia. 
It was simply a jugglery of words. . . . And Dolly 
was so casual. He so desperately longed for everything 
to go on smoothly and comfortably as before. He pas- 
sionately loathed the thought of seeing her pallid and 
weak. He thought of other men tied and bound to the 
side of delicate wives. They waited on them hand and 
foot. They were praised by everyone for devoted hus- 
bands — a pretty consolation. They could never go any- 
where or do anything freely, as other men, because their 
wives needed their constant attendance. And if for a 
day they neglected the invalid, then they were brutes. 


iTHE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Henry knew that it would be impossible for him to be 
a brute in that sense. If Dolly ever became an invalid, 
he would nurse her faithfully and never leave her side. 
He would always do his duty. But the thought of such 
a duty tortured him with apprehension. He had heard 
that some women were never the same again. Something 
went wrong, though that was very rare. Only she should 
take all the necessary precautions, she must not lift heavy 
things, nor raise her arms above her head. . . . 

And yet all the while he did want a child — a son. 
He wanted someone to inherit Needs from him, and he 
would like him to make a lot of money. He should be 
brought up on these lines — to learn some trade where 
you had a chance. At the same time Henry had a vague 
wish that he might be in the Rifle Brigade, which was 
quite a contrary ambition. Anyhow he should be an 
English gentleman, and worthily carry on the name 
which had been so honourably upheld by the late major, 
the author of the work on jurisprudence, and all the — 
no doubt — reputable or even illustrious Wedlaws that 
came before. 

But after all it was slightly foolish, however natural, 
to build castles such as this. It might be a girl. Elsie 
Faucet had told Dolly from the stores of her maternal 
experience that she was certain it would be. And the 
prospect of such a calamity left Henry without one 
imagined stone to lay upon another. Girls were either 
pretty or they were not. You got them married, if you 
could. But in any case they were a nuisance. 

But how he wished Dolly were not so careless of her- 
self. He had perpetually to remind her, to urge her to 
go for quiet drives. Actually, she had wanted to take 
the dogcart out herself — the jolting dogcart and a young 
and troublesome horse. And now was just the time when 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


something unfortunate might happen. Seven months — ' 
very dangerous indeed. . . . And when she went out 
she would never make allowances for a possible change 
in the weather. If it was fine when she started she 
would never take a coat. He was always running about 
after her with this or that guard against the rain or 
cold. 

Henry was exceedingly anxious that the child should 
be bom at Needs. It fitted in with his almost pathetic 
desire to. impress himself with his genealogical impor- 
tance. He himself had struggled into the world in a 
villa on the outskirts of a garrison town. His father 
first drew breath in an hotel. This had been unpremedi- 
tated as a matter of fact, but there it was. Now his 
child should at least, if only he could get his way, be 
born in his own place — decently, respectably, gentle- 
manly. It didn’t matter in the least where you died. 
You didn’t lose caste like that. If it was a gambling hell- 
in Pernambuco, there would always be found someone to 
talk of a heart attack whilst in the pursuit of sport. But 
you should be born properly if it was possible so to 
arrange it. 

However, Dolly had an insane desire to go away from 
Needs and be in London. Certainly that was handier 
for doctors and urgent calls upon chemists’ shops, but 
really she would have everything she wanted at home. 
The local man was really a clever fellow. Elsie Faucet 
vouched for him. But no — Dolly was bent upon seeing 
the Diamond Jubilee and upon staying in the new house 
and having the baby there. Well, he might yet be able 
to make her see reason (by which he meant his reasons), 
but he felt that he oughtn’t to thwart her too much. 
Women got funny ideas into their heads when they were 
in the family way. You must humour them as far as 

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you could. He supposed the Diamond Jubilee was in 
the same category as boiled fish. At one period Dolly 
had an insatiable appetite for boiled fish — cod par- 
ticularly. 

‘‘When he called just now, he hadn’t any cod : most 
annoying. Henry, when you go into Utchester this 
afternoon, do go to the fishmonger’s and get some for 
dinner. Bright in Fore Street, or else Aldridge. I 
must have some.” 

And Henry, steeped in the lore of pre-natal influence, 
conjured in his mind an awful picture of his son and 
heir with a nasty pink fish plainly delineated across his 
brow. He would order the cart and start at once. 
Every fishmonger within possible reach should be har- 
rassed for cod. But that phase had long passed. Now 
she was quite ordinarily eager to see the Jubilee pro- 
cession. 

In London, during the winter, she had gone to look at 
pictures and paid much attention to Gerald Faucet’s 
house and to her own. With superstitious carefulness 
she sat and gazed at the fair proportions of old furni- 
ture, and wandered from room to room in the National 
Gallery, wandering and searching. 

Dolly had but one idea now. She would surround 
herself with and contemplate everything that was beauti- 
ful. She had wanted to be at Needs during the spring 
and the early days of summer, so as to be amongst the 
daffodils, and from her window to see the vivid green, 
and to fill blue bowls with blue anemones, and read the 
favourites of her older books. Some parts of the garden 
she never visited. She stedfastly refused to go into 
the orchard or the spinney beyond. There was an im- 
pression she wanted to create : there was another impres- 
sion which she hoped to raze. 

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With quiet good humour she endured Henry’s fidget- 
ing attentiveness, and her carelessness lived only in his 
imagination. She looked after herself extremely well. 
She had no intention whatever of running risks. Her 
health was more splendid than ever. She saw much of 
Bella Keene and shared her uproarious laughter. Gerald 
Faucet came to stay with them, and with Johnson in 
the grim conspiracy, they made him an apple-pie bed, 
and sewed up his pyjamas. And Gerald, who combined 
with dandyism and dilettantism the spirit of a riotous 
child, countered with elaborate booby traps, even wreak- 
ing his vengeance upon Henry, trying to make him laugh 
in church, keeping him waiting with the offertory bag 
while he polished a shilling with his handkerchief. 

‘Tack of babies, that’s what you are — the lot of you,” 
Henry would say, and though he failed to join actively 
in the fooling, he could not but respond to the infectious 
happiness of the time. 

Then to compensate Gerald for their maltreatment of 
him, Dolly and Bella would make him read the manu- 
script of his Life of Charles. Gerald was vain of his 
work, and they were sympathetic listeners. He had a 
quiet wit, a fastidious style which, while lacking vigour, 
yet served this particular purpose with singular con- 
geniality. 

But there were times when Dolly’s courage wavered, 
when the happiness which was really spontaneous seemed 
upon the brink of extinction. At Needs and in London 
too, letters that came by the first post were put upon 
the breakfast table. Every now and then there would 
be one addressed to Dolly in a minute and stingy hand. 
At first these had borne a French stamp and the Paris 
postmark, latterly an Australian — Adelaide. Whatever 
her inclination — and Dolly was disposed to be lazy in 

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winter — she would be the first downstairs. On one or 
two urgent occasions she had broken her rule and the 
letters had been brought up to her. But she would make 
no permanent alteration in the household plan. She 
would be down first, and if the niggardly handwriting 
showed itself the envelope would be snatched up and in- 
stantly hidden in her dress, subsequently burned un- 
opened. 

For a part of the time that she was in London, Henry 
stayed on at Needs, coming periodically for a few days 
at a time to Queen Street. Dolly urged him not to give 
up his hunting on her behalf, and on his own to look 
after the place. During these weeks her letters were for- 
warded by Johnson. 

One day she was overcome with a sudden terror. 
Henry was coming up before long for Christmas, and 
she had written to ask him to bring a certain book with 
him. She told him that it was in the small bookcase in 
her own sitting-room. Later it occurred to her that it 
might not be so, and possibly Henry would make a 
systematic search, and that might lead him to look at 
her bureau, and — ^it had gone out of her mind com- 
pletely, for she had been so careful of later develop- 
ments — in that bureau were a number of letters that had 
been opened, letters that had come during that last week 
before the divorce case. She had meant to burn them 
too, but had put off doing so, because that very fact 
would have focussed her attention upon what was easier 
forgotten in procrastination. And — Henry might come 
upon them. They were not tied together, but the hand- 
writing would be unmistakable to him. He would be 
bound to wonder . . . 

But in the event he found the book lying on a table, 
and so it was that he never saw one of the letters. If 
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Henry did happen to see it she was ready. She would 
cry out at the impertinence of it and tear it into little 
pieces before his eyes. And the letters grew scarcer 
and scarcer and at length were discontinued altogether, 
but it was long before Dolly ceased to feel the nervous 
strain coincident with their possible coming. 

She was conscious of nothing base about such trickery. 
It was an unpleasant necessity. She meant to save her 
own skin — and Henry’s. She had made a mistake in 
the past. She intended to suffer for it as little as pos- 
sible. She thought now that people who allowed 
themselves to suffer overmuch for their own actions 
were to be despised. 

It was strange how she missed Henry that winter 
during the week or more that he remained away at a 
time. Her old friends, with the exception of Bella, 
seemed very unsatisfying. She put that down to her 
condition of health. ‘"Tiresome” people were singularly 
uninterested in babies. It did not need Evelyn, who 
spent an hour or so with her on her way through Lon- 
don on one occasion, to explain to Dolly that sooner or 
later we all come back to real life. Evelyn was most 
eloquent on the subject, and turned up her eyes and 
allowed her voice an emotional quiver. . . . But after 
all it was only for an hour or so. She chose to be with 
Bella and Gerald and artists who were not precisely 
tiresome. 

“After all,” said Dolly of the latter in her revulsion 
of feeling, “they don’t count. Nobody will know whom 
you mean if you mention them in twenty years’ time.” 

“I’m not sure,” Bella would answer. “What an ex- 
treme person you are, Dolly. You’re sick of the crowd 
temporarily. It will come back though. As a matter 
of fact I should think quite a number of ’em will by then 

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be having their autographs collected, and will be spoken 
of with bated breath in the outlying districts of Bir- 
mingham and Tunbridge Wells.” 

“Do you really think so?” 

“Yes, I do. So would you if you thought a minute. 
Only for the time being you can think of nothing but 
babies and flowers and milk and being natural. Quite 
right too.” 

Burshall called sometimes, and Gerald, if he happened 
to be there at the time, would slink away at once. He 
loathed Burshall. 

Henry had shot with persistent good luck that sea- 
son, he had made one or two small investments which 
were doing extremely well. It was nice when he arrived 
— he was in such a good temper. And later on there 
came that glorious springtime at Needs when they played 
the fool, and the garden was ablaze with every tone of 
yellow, when the daffodils nodded from the bank to the 
daffodils that swayed beside the lawn. They spent a 
good deal of time with Graham and his wife, and the 
latter gave Dolly lessons in the care of children with 
Muriel Geraldine as a practical instance. 

Henry grew more and more fussy, but he tried to be 
generous, and the smaller workings of fate had been so 
auspicious that he was almost content. About that time 
he often leaned over gates and wondered at the vague, 
tremulous longings which came to him at sundown, and 
sometimes he forgot to despise himself for his worship 
of the stars. 


296 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


T his stand must hold five thousand at least,” said 
Henry. 

“That nice fireman told me three thousand,” Elsie 
said. 

“Must be more — ^five thousand at least.” 

“What a terrible thing it would be,” suggested Gerald, 
“if he discovered for certain that it was only two thou- 
sand five hundred.” 

He did not labour the point, but went on to discuss 
the face of a man who was shovelling sand upon the 
roadway. He knew that Henry was really pleased to 
think that he watched the Jubilee procession from so 
big a stand. It was of definite significance to him that 
it should be capable of seating five thousand people. It 
made him feel important. Henry loved the superficial 
superlative. 

The big stand was built up in front of St. Saviour’s 
in Southwark, and more than merely finishing touches 
were being given to it after the arrival of the Faucets 
and the Wedlaws. The question of seats had been left 
entirely in Gerald’s hands. When they sat down there 
was still much hammering above, before and beneath 
them. Men were going hither and thither with pieces 
of red felt, and the hollow sound from blows on loose 
planks was almost continuous. The crowd upon the 

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opposite side of the thoroughfare grew thicker minute 
by minute. On all sides were flags and festoons and 
the purple and the red, white and blue. 

Presently some dragoons arrived to keep the route. 
This was inspiring. It gave the sense of the beginning 
of things. It had been a dull morning but now the 
sun came out at last in earnest. It would be gloriously 
fine. Already there was a clatter of cups and saucers 
from somewhere beneath, where amongst odd bits of 
wood, sawdust, ambulance accessories and fire-hose, peo- 
ple working in each other’s way and against time were 
busy upon tea and coffee and lemonade and bread and 
butter and buns. There was an endless coming and 
going of men with programmes and rice paper souvenirs 
and badges with portraits of the Queen. 

Henry was glad, now that it had come to the point, 
that Dolly had insisted on coming to London. He 
wouldn’t have missed the great procession even for the 
propriety of having his child born at Needs. He was 
enjoying himself immensely. He loved a big func- 
tion, even as a spectator. He had never seen a great 
London crowd. He had been abroad on other processive 
occasions: and as nothing seemed to be happening for 
the moment he began to tell Elsie Faucet about the fu- 
neral of a murdered president in South America. Christ- 
mas at Iquique and Christmas at home, the obsequies of 
Don and the Queen’s Jubilee — there was some- 

thing very fascinating to Henry about such comparisons. 
He liked to think about them and tell people about 
them. 

For Dolly this was the supreme end of her prepa- 
rations. She regarded it as a fitting climax. For all 
these months she had but one end in view — to predispose 
her child to a love of what was beautiful and fine. And 
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now at the last was this day of amazing splendour, a 
time when a great volume of emotion was loosed. . . . 
Dolly thought that it could not but have its effect. And 
at any moment now her time might come. 

Indeed Elsie was not at all sure that she was wise, 
and every now and again she glanced nervously in her 
direction. It was now very hot. Already a number of 
people within sight of them had fainted and had been 
carried away on stretchers. And one man had been seen 
to fling his arms about and the crowd about him instantly 
grew denser and the police became very busy. The word 
began to go round that he was in a fit. For some this 
was a little excitement by the way, some felt a quick 
horror. Gerald explained what people would do for a 
free drink. 

And then there was a great burst of cheering, rising 
louder and coming nearer, and the crowd swayed and 
heads that had been for so long turned craned out to 
see. It was nearly midday, the procession was beginning 
to come by. They settled down to watch. Conversation 
died out, save for the pointing out of who was who. 

Though the view in front of them was close and un- 
interrupted, on the left — ^whence the procession was com- 
ing from London Bridge — the interminable line of heads 
in the long front row made it difficult to see very much 
until the horses and carriages were actually passing them. 
Now and again the cheering rose into sudden yelps of 
joy when some especially familiar face went by. Dolly, 
as usual ignoring her programme, leaned forward with 
the others. She did not in the least want to know 
who everybody was. The scene of pomp unparalleled 
before her eyes was quite enough : the blazing of gor- 
geous colour, the scarlet and the blue, the shimmering 
weapons, the brilliancy of gold, the almost intolerable 

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scintillation from helmets and breastplates, the refulgent 
light, the sustained movement. And fine men — one 
with their glorious horses — passed and passed. There 
could never have been such horses, there could never have 
been such men. . . . 

When the Queen had gone by there was a sense that 
all that happened afterwards was easier to watch, the 
waiting, so hard to bear, need be borne no longer. It 
was all splendid and interesting but the intensely emo- 
tional stress was over. They could sit more at ease and 
cheer with a less frenzied strain, and they could bring 
out their sandwiches and flasks. Gerald, in anticipation 
of the heat and thirst, had brought a box of luscious 
fruit. He produced it now. They began to chatter 
again. 

The arrival of the colonial troops who in this quarter 
of London followed the Royal carriages was less of an 
anticlimax than it might have been. They came in little 
bands, men of every build and every colour, from the 
uttermost corners of the world’s end. Dolly watched 
them and as her bedazzled eyes moved on from rank to 
rank, trying to see everything, to pass through the whole 
gamut of sensation, she saw one figure — tall amongst 
the tall, loose-limbed, lean, spruce in his khaki tunic, 
now with a small moustache which failed to hide the 
two protruding teeth. With eyes in front he marched 
with the rest . . . and Dolly looked and looked. 

So for this she had come, for this — ^the last — impres- 
sion. She felt sick and ill : she leaned forward with her 
hands hiding each side of her face and stared and saw 
nothing. She did not know that a sudden and uncon- 
scious gasp had brought Graham Faucet’s eye upon her. 
He too had seen and recognised. . . . They were the 
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only two to do so. . . . Perhaps in one of his unread 
letters he had told her of his coming with the colonial 
troops. It was a very natural sort of thing to hap- 
pen. Oliver Maitland always made a point of being 
in things. . . . 

She had been so happy, so forgetful, so excited. This 
had been the crowning day, and now suddenly her out- 
look changed for one of black despair. There was only 
pain and darkness and pain. . . . 

After the lapse of some minutes Graham with un- 
moved face looked at her again; and leaning behind 
Henry, who was next to him, pulled Elsie by the sleeve. 
He didn't say anything but just threw back his head 
towards Dolly, which meant — “just see that she’s all 
right.” Henry was intent upon the fag end of the 
procession. Graham didn’t want to spoil his fun be- 
fore it was necessary. Dolly, in answer to Elsie’s lifted 
eyebrows, assured her that all was well. But the next 
moment she retreated into safety again behind her shield- 
ing hands. 

It might have been expected at any time now, and the 
shock could have made but little difference. Luckily they 
would be able to move soon. 

“Well, it was a glorious day,” said Graham to his 
brother the following morning as they came from break- 
fast. 

“And she deserved it, bless her. Must have been a 
very trying time for an old lady — ^very trying. Wonder 
when Elsie will be back? I don’t like to go round. I 
know what it is myself. Poor Henry! And a little 
place like that and the bell going every minute.” 

Graham and his wife were staying with Gerald for 
the Jubilee, but seeing that events had unexpectedly 

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hastened, Elsie, in the hope of being useful, had returned 
to Queen Street with Dolly. Henry had been sent back 
with the two brothers with peremptory orders not to 
return home until after dinner. As he liked being or- 
dered about by Elsie Faucet, and as within himself he 
was extremely thankful for the authoritative assurance 
that he would only be in the way in his own house, he 
had given in at once. 

‘T told the cabby to drive right round across the Park 
and by the Marble Arch so as to avoid the route,” said 
Graham. ‘Tt would be an awful way, but I thought it 
would be quicker in the end. If she really was begin- 
ning it must have been a pretty nasty drive — eh!” 

‘T’ve never had a baby,” said Gerald, “but I dare say 
you’re right. It was extremely silly of her to have come 
yesterday, if you ask me. She must have known it was 
near.” 

“Very silly. What a grand thing though. It’ll be 
all right now — you see. A child was what they wanted. 
You know, old boy, I was beginning to get very unhappy 
about that household. I told you last year.” 

“Yes.” 

Gerald was exceedingly fond of both Dolly and Henry, 
but the domestic accomplishment of which the former 
was just giving an instance left him not very interested 
and quite uncomfortable. He loved children and he 
loved happy families, but Nature in action found him 
shy and fugitive. He was a little horrified by Graham’s 
homely and straightforward concern in the processes of 
child-birth. 

“Look here,” said Gerald, rustling the Times as he 
turned a page, and eagerly changing the subject, “this 
is the sort of thing that pleases me. It’s the description 
of the show from where we were in the Borough . . . 
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‘spasmodic display of bunting and flags here and there, 
serving to cover up, like the clinging ivy on an unsightly 
wall, the scarred and weather-beaten surface of gable 
and window.’ ” 

“Well,” said Graham, “so it did. They did the deco- 
rations very well. In excellent taste.” 

“But, my good man, think of it as said here,” and 
he tapped the page with an angry forefinger. “The 
whole point to the writer of this was that scarred and 
weather-beaten surfaces were covered and hidden. Think 
what it means! Think of the shocking immorality of 
it. Think of how deeply it strikes, how it shows up 
the British nation in the expression of its highest pride. 
Think ” 

But Graham was at the window, watching the driver 
of a hansom who was looking at the numbers on the 
doors as he drove along. Then a small grey-gloved 
hand appeared, and the man pulled up. 

“It’s Elsie, let’s go down.” 

They reached the hall just as Morpeth opened the 
door and Elsie came hurrying in. 

“Oh, here you are. I wondered whether I should 
find you both. Such a time ! But it’s all right. I think 
she’ll be all right now.” 

She paused for a moment to get breath and Graham 
kissed her. 

“Poor old girl,” he said, “you must be tired out.” 

“Oh, I’m not. And it’s a girl, and Henry’s dread- 
fully disappK)inted. I think Dolly’ll be glad, but at pres- 
ent she’s not awfully interested in anything. Gerald, 
get me some tea, there’s a dear. I had some breakfast 
ages ago but I had to look after Henry and had my 
hands full. Well, now we’ve got a wife for Dick.” 

“You’re an awful woman,” said Gerald. 


303 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


HE family left London at the earliest possible mo- 



A ment, and the baby was, under customary protest, 
christened Katherine by Dr. Thorpe. She was installed 
in a big white nursery, upon the walls of which, at ir- 
regular intervals, Dolly had painted huge bubbles of faint 
pinks and blues and yellows. Henry was so relieved 
from imminent dismay and dread that for a while he 
grumbled less than usual. He was happy in the certain 
knowledge that Dolly’s restlessness would be appeased 
for some time to come. They could settle down in their 
appointed groove — settle down. Henry loved the thought 
of being settled. There would be no sudden changes, 
or quick losses of temper or rows. Dolly would grow 
sensible just like other people. How safe and comfort- 
able that was — to be just like other people. She would — 
he had always said so — ^be a first-rate mother. 

There had been a little division over the question of 
god-parents, but it had been no more. Henry had been 
magnanimous; he had given in. What difference did it 
make? Henry had wanted Lord Youlgrave, Dolly’s 
cousin, to be god-father. It was fitting and right that 
the most illustrious of her relations should be chosen. 

“But why?” Dolly asked. “I hardly know the man. 
The whole thing is only a convention. Don’t look horri- 
fied. You know you think so too, only you won’t admit 

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it and I do. Let us have our social function, only let the 
functionaries be real friends. Why not Michael?’’ 

Bella Keene and Evelyn had already been agreed upon 
as god-mothers. 

So Henry stood proxy for his brother, and a large 
iced cake was cut into ceremoniously small pieces at 
tea, and the baby — as Dolly put it afterwards — was 
handed round for inspection just like Gerald Faucet’s 
latest acquisition of Sevres. 

Henry, of course, liked to be upon good terms with 
the neighbourhood. He was amiable to all the folk 
who lived about him, but tea parties gathered for the 
express purpose of adoring the baby were a bore. The 
unfailing curiosity that some women display concerning 
other people’s babies never ceased to puzzle him. They 
would drive for miles through slush and rain to satisfy 
it. Now and again he had to hold the little creature, 
gingerly, in his arms and feel that he was a figure of 
fun. But he refused to do this on these public occasions. 
He had an excellent excuse just now for keeping away. 
Haywood, the bailiff, was ill; and for a time Henry 
worked really hard on his own land. 

He had wanted a son, but there was plenty of time 
yet, he told himself and others told him. In any case 
it was difficult to take much interest in a young baby. 

It was very gratifying to find that Dolly welcomed 
to her house' on these occasions people about whom she 
had been so outspokenly unpleasant before. It was all 
right, Henry said to himself ; what she had wanted was 
a baby. Yes, she was settling down. She liked Mrs. 
Moye and the others now. 

Dolly’s sense of proportion — always a doubtful quan- 
tity — ^was still in abeyance. She was, as Bella had put 
it, interested in babies and she found her neighbours 

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quite apart from Elsie Faucet, very congenial. They 
were really sensible people. They thoroughly understood 
babies. They applauded her initial effort. They hoped 
that she would have many babies and all as fine — if that 
were possible — as Katherine. Dolly kept saying to her- 
self now that this was the thing that really mattered. 
Miss Elstree’s social accomplishments might be attenu- 
ated, Mrs. Moye might be fond of a platitude, but 
they were really and truly good sorts, however much 
Bella might have fulminated against them in the past. 
How narrow she herself had been with her chatter of 
art and her ideas of life. . . . Dolly was whole-hearted. 
She loved to upset her own apple-cart and to start 
picking afresh. 

It was Gerald who eventually pointed the moral and 
tried to help her reason back to its old, true but rougher 
channels. 

Several people had been asked to tea and some more 
had called casually. Amongst the latter was Gerald 
himself, who was staying at Clenham and who, as had 
happened before, quite fortuitously hit upon the day 
when everybody who most grievously disapproved of 
him was present — ^Canon and Mrs. Moye, Mrs. Elstree 
and her two daughters. 

As Katherine had been loudly demanding her own tea 
a little while before, Dolly was unable to come down- 
stairs and a maid was sent to bring the two elder women 
to the nursery. 

Gladys Elstree, the elder daughter, remonstrated with 
her mother. 

‘'Do you think it is quite wise to go upstairs, dearest ?” 
she said. "I am sure you will see the darling later on.'^ 

Mrs. Elstree, a very frail-looking woman in deep 
mourning, smiled at her daughter and shook her head. 
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“I shall be able to manage it quite well, thank you, 
dear. Mrs. Moye will give me her arm, I am sure.” 

''Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Moye. ‘‘Now here is the 
first step and then you lean on me.” 

Meanwhile, Henry who had been trapped for once, 
listened with grave attention to the Canon and produced 
photographs of the baby for the enraptured admiration 
of the Elstree girls. 

“What a lucky little girl to have such a nice nursery,” 
said Mrs. Moye when she had come upstairs with Mrs. 
Elstree and had greeted Dolly. “Pm sure I never had 
such a nice nursery. And what quaint wall paper ! Air- 
balloons. Most uncommon. They do so much for chil- 
dren nowadays — quite a branch of trade, I am told — 
nursery papers. Oh — bubbles — ^yes, how stupid of me. 
And did you really paint them yourself ? Fancy! How 
nice it would be if you had that charming picture by 
Millais too. They’d go so well together. Let me see — 
how old is she?” And when she was told — “Dear me, 
what a fine child! Delightful age, isn’t it?” 

This was the third occasion on which Mrs. Moye had 
seen the baby. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Elstree in a gentle voice that always 
seemed upon the brink of tears, “yes — but wait a little. 
I think that three is the ideal age — so natural. What a 
well-bred looking child! Such a little gentlewoman she 
looks already.” 

“Oh, she’s sweet,” Mrs. Moye insisted, smiling and 
nodding her head at the baby. “So helpless, dear little 
creature.” 

Seeing that the child was at that moment vigorously 
helping herself the remark was singularly malapropos. 
But Dolly was too conscious of the supremacy of her 
motherhood to heed inanities, These women were 

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mothers themselves, they had come to see her baby. . . . 

Presently they came downstairs to the drawing-room 
to find that Gerald had arrived, preceded at a few min- 
utes' interval by Mr. and Mrs. Clarey. The latter was 
telling Canon Moye what she thought of the state of 
the roads. The Canon, a big man with a face that 
shone, put his hand behind his ear and bent forward. 

“His hearing is not very good," said Mrs. Moye. 
“Some people are much deafer than others, are they not? 
My mother’s people — ^the Cloughton- Winters — were al- 
ways deaf from the age of thirty, every one of them. 
It was an old tradition in the family." 

Ethel Elstree had greeted Mr. Clarey effusively. He 
was on leave from India, and she was very proud of his 
friendship. It was a most fortunate chance, she thought, 
that had brought him and Gerald Faucet together. She 
could hardly control her laughter at the thought of these 
two in the same room — the soldier, as broad as he was 
long, his stockings bulging; Gerald with his narrow 
shoulders and his stoop, his dandified garments. He 
never played games nor hunted. He was so different 
from other men. And yet he had been at Winchester 
and at Oxford. It was all very strange to Ethel Elstree. 

“I don’t think you’ve met before,” she said. “Mr. 
Faucet — Mr. Clarey, the Rugby International." 

“He ought to shrivel at that,’’ she thought, and listened 
with glowing eyes upon the great man. 

“Football — yes," Gerald was saying, “I saw a game 
of football once. The police interfered, though." 

“That’s just it,’’ said Clarey, who though irritated by 
the high relief given to his fame was now at home with 
a topic he understood. “Yes— that’s just it. Sport 
isn’t what it was— become commercial. The crowd set 
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on the referee one year when I was playing against the 
Hoppickers/’ 

“Where was it the police stopped the game, Mr. 
Faucet?’' asked Ethel. 

“Oh, in a comer of Bryanston Square.” 

When she had given this time to trickle through to 
her comprehension, she turned pointedly to Henry. He 
was a man, at any rate; and she must find somebody to 
accept her championing. 

“His brother — ^Mr. Clarey’s — ^has climbed the Matter- 
horn three times,” she said, and added with religious 
solemnity, “He’s an F.R.G.S., you know.” 

“Is he, by Jove!” said Henry, who paid his own 
guinea regularly every year to that end. 

“Yes,” and she nodded with wide eyes. 

“I hope I shall be able to see your little daughter, 
Mrs. Wedlaw,” Mrs. Clarey said. “Very young yet, 
isn’t she? How old is she?” 

“Five months.” 

“Really, as much as that? Such a sweet age, I always 
think.” 

“The Canon and I are thinking of going away next 
week to get a few sea breezes,” said Mrs. Moye. “I 
think the sea is very fine in the winter. My cousin. 
Colonel Glougham, always preferred it then. When he 
was invalided home after the Egyptian Campaign, he 
went at once to his place by the seaside. The Glbughams 
have been there since sixteen hundred; and he was the 
last of the family, you know. And now the people in 
the old place are nobodies — he^s a painter, you know.” 

“Felshurst is to let now, I hear,” said Canon Moye. 

“They’ve found a tenant, haven’t they?” Henry asked. 

“There’s someone after it, at all events,” Mrs. Moye 
declared indignantly. “But we hope . They’re re- 

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tired tradesmen and, weVe heard, not Churchpeople. 
Such a pity if it is so — a nice place like Felshurst. I 
believe he is the son of a small chemist in Bristol,” added 
the daughter of a big lawyer in Clifton. 

After some further discussion of this point, Mrs. 
Elstree looked up and smiled at Dolly for no special rea- 
son. It was a recognized thing that to whatever house 
she went she sat quite still while relays of people were 
told off to talk to her. Mrs. Clarey was doing duty at 
the moment. And every now and again Mrs. Elstree 
would look up and catch somebody's eye and smile 
vaguely but very sweetly. People loved Mrs. Elstree's 
smile. It told them how very cheerfully she bore her ill- 
health, what an example she was to a querulous world. 

‘^Do you know — it’s really most interesting — Charles 
the Second stayed for a month at Felshurst once,” re- 
marked Canon Moye to Gerald. “It’s mentioned in his- 
tory. Ah, but I don’t suppose you trouble about that 
much.” 

Gerald had recently devoted a couple of pages in his 
own book to proving conclusively that Charles could 
never have slept a night at the house in question. 

“You don’t read history?” persisted the Canon. 

“Oh — er — sometimes,” helplessly said Gerald. 

“He writes it,” Dolly put in. 

“Oh, you’re interested in educational questions? In- 
deed it is a great field.” And the clergyman went on to 
tell Dolly, so far as propriety admitted, what history had 
told him of Felshurst and its royal guest. 

“Yes. It was said that a corner of the house could 
be seen in the famous portrait by — by Velarskay, was 
it not? — ^but it was subsequently painted out, and a cur- 
tain put in its place. Some painful memory, no doubt.” 

“I wanted to ask you, dear Mrs. Wedlaw,” Mrs. Moye 
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said, '‘can you tell me anything about a Mrs. Allen? 
She lives in that group of cottages down the Utchester 
road, and I know you know everybody in these parts, 
so good you are to them. She has applied to the Ruri- 
decanal Mothers’ Fund. I wondered if ?” 

"Oh, I think Mrs. Allen’s a very good body.” 

"You think she deserves to be helped? Is she quite 
a satisfactory person?” 

"Is she — 2i good Churchwoman ?” 

Dolly wondered at her own daring and earned an 
appreciative glance from Gerald. 

"Ah,” said Mrs. Moye, accepting the question on its 
face value, "about that there’s little doubt, I fear. By 
the way, would you care to be one of our vice-presidents? 
The subscription is ” 

Mrs. Elstree, who had already risen, caught Dolly’s 
eye. 

"I’m afraid ” she said with a weary smile, and 

began to shake hands. 

"Have you your cloak, mother?” her elder daughter 
asked, "or did you leave it in the carriage? Mother’s 
been suffering so from her rheumatism lately, Mrs. 
Wedlaw.” 

"Ah, but I’ve two dear daughters to look after me. 
What would we old people do, I wonder ?’' 

The other dear daughter wished that her mother would 
not elect to go in the middle of an ecstatic conversation 
with a famous footballer. However, there was a short 
postponement, for at that moment Katherine appeared in 
the arms of her nurse. 


311 


CHAPTER XXXV 


T T was two or three days later that Gerald lunched at 
Needs and gossiped with Dolly afterwards. It was 
market-day at Utchester and Henry had gone in for 
Petty Sessions. 

Dolly began by chaffing Gerald on the subject of Miss 
Elstree. The story of her hopeless passion for him as a 
young curate was now a very old one; but in a circle 
where the vagaries of conversation were signally limited, 
old stories, particularly malicious ones, must serve their 
mathematically recurrent turn. 

Miss Elstree was a thoroughly “good’’ woman, no 
longer very young, a devoted worker for the church, an 
indispensable speaker at the Diocesan Women’s Asso- 
ciation. She was genuinely respected. 

“Poor dear,” said Dolly, “it’s a shame, but I can’t 
help laughing. It wasn’t your fault, I imagine?” 

“No. As a matter of fact the whole thing is greatly 
exaggerated. But that’s not to say that Gladys Elstree’s 
life is not a tragedy. It is.” 

Gerald said it quite seriously and Dolly looked at 
him. 

“Why, what on earth do you mean? Was there an- 
other affair?” 

“No — ^there wasn’t, that’s just it. She is one of the 
worst symptoms of one of this country’s most deadly 
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diseases. How shall I put it? You know Ethel, her 
younger sister?’’ 

loathsome type.” 

“Yes, in a sense. Hard, mean, an essential snob — 
her whole soul in a hockey bat. But she’s got life in her. 
She’s horrid but she’s healthy. If she blushes, you see 
the good, warm, red blood in her cheeks: if Gladys 
blushes, you get a faint wash of burnt sienna. She’s 
stuck in a slough and she can’t move and it’s gradually 
choking her. Shall I tell you her history? — it’s common 
to thousands of Englishwomen.” 

“Please do.” 

“I tell you that I solemnly believe Gladys Elstree’s 
life to be more infinitely tragic than the life of a lady 
who parades Piccadilly. It’s more tragic than a woman’s 
whose husband chases her round with a poker. It’s ever 
so much worse than a really poor woman’s who has 
to work like a slave and doesn’t get enough to eat. You 
know Mrs. Elstree. What do you think of her?” 

“Well, I’ve seen very little of her. Poor thing, she 
has such bad health. She can’t get out much. I thought 
it so good of her coming all this way in such weather.” 

“Just so; exactly so. If you were not somebody else’s 
wife I should feel like throwing a book at your head. 
Oh, indeed — yes. Such bad health, poor thing.” 

“But she has — you don’t know, Gerald.” 

“But I do know. You’re just like the whole boiling of 
them. But this history of Gladys. Well, she was the 
eldest. Elstree was a parson, as you know. He died just 
after Ethel was born. They were left quite poor, but 
could have been perfectly comfortable but for the desire 
to impress their neighbours. They would call it pride 
and keeping up appearances, but it’s much more than 
that : or rather much less. Mrs. Elstree was rather well 

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connected — like Mrs. Moye, only much more so. You’ve 
gathered as much?” 

‘Trom Mrs. Moye.” 

‘‘That’s a woman without any brains at all and she 
does it badly. Mrs. Elstree is just as insistent, but rather 
more subtle. Did she tell you that your baby looked a 
little gentlewoman?” 

“Yes,” Dolly laughed. “She did, but anyone might 
say that.” 

“Certainly, but she said it to me as well immediately 
afterwards. She’s always saying it in effect. She can’t 
leave it alone. She and Mrs. Moye are wonderful peo- 
ple. Not being an imbecile, I believe in breeding. I 
believe in it much more than they do. When they’re talk- 
ing about people, they never want to know whether 
they’re good at their job or whether they’ve done any- 
thing that’s permanently useful : they want to know 
whether they learnt their Latin prose at Eton or corh- 
mercial letter-writing at a provincial grammar school. 
That’s not admiration of breeding, is it ?” 

“What do you call a gentleman, Gerald?” 

“Obviously, a member of any family whose income for 
four generations has exceeded five hundred a year. To 
get back to Gladys, though. They’re poor, remember, 
and well born. They must do the right things. Gladys 
must be presented and go to a few balls and so on. She 
gets a glimpse of what — whatever you may think of it — 
is real life and very good fun for her. And then for the 
rest of her days she must be tied to a country rectory. 
Poor thing — how she harks back to that presentation. 
She thinks it makes less exalted people jealous, and by 
the Lord I suppose it does. She has seen enough and 
known enough to be dissatisfied with the matrimonial 
prospects down here, particularly in these days when all 

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the young men of her class are out for money or else 
the good spirits and fun which she is too well-bred to 
provide. A few years ago you always used to hear Mrs. 
Elstree saying — ‘Gladys doesn’t want to marry.’ It’s 
very easy to laugh at that. It is also very easy to accept 
it. But did you happen to see her looking at Katherine the 
other day ? She frowned : there was something between 
hunger and dismay in her face. It gave me quite a turn. 
It made me want to put my arm round her waist. She’s 
a stick now, but she wasn’t always. The whole point is 
obscured by the fact that she isn’t particularly amiable or 
gracious. It’s not her fault. She’ll develop into the 
standard type of old maid that people make fun of, and 
no wonder. Well then, you see, her father dies and her 
mother resolutely retires into permanent mourning and 
occupies herself with ill-health. She gradually pulls the 
apron strings tighter. Gladys doesn’t want to marry. 
She can stop at home and take care of mother. Mind, the 
mother is a really good woman according to every ac- 
cepted code. I don’t suppose she’s ever told a serious 
lie or deliberately made mischief about her neighbour. 
She believes in her religion.” 

“She’s a typical good woman,” said Dolly. 

“She is: and Gladys is a good daughter. You must 
have heard dozens of people say it of her and others in 
the same sort of case. ‘She is devoted to her mother’ — 
or father or whomever it happens to be. ‘She’s so un- 
selfish’ they say. And so she is : and she’s never had a 
bit of real fun for fifteen years. Once in a blue moon 
she goes out without her mother and comes and has tea 
with you or Elsie. She spoils her sister — naturally. She 
must have someone to spoil. And the sister, being that 
sort of girl, takes it all and chuckles. Poor Gladys — ^how 
she must sigh over lost opportunities for wrongdoing in 

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the past. I wonder she doesn’t take to drink. Perhaps 
she will. But that’s not very exciting all alone. What I 
want to impress on you is that the kind of life they lead 
— Gladys and her mother — is, in the English mind, typi- 
cal of the highest sort of good. Everybody is sorry for 
Mrs. Elstree with her widowhood and her wretched 
health — everybody admires the conduct of Gladys. It’s 
reminiscent of Ruth and Naomi. But it’s against Nature, 
Dolly. I swear it is. And now you have the picture of 
this gentle, refined, virtuous, delicate, sweet-tempered 
fiend out of hell, sapping the vitality of a younger wo- 
man, crushing the very breath from her body, living on 
and on, a good Church-woman, a devout suppliant to 
God, generous to the poor, always very sad, very pious, 
but with a selfishness more cruel and more appalling, 
more soul-destroying than all the whoredoms of Jezebel.” 

‘^Gerald, I love you when you’re angry and let rip.” 

‘‘Angry — Good God! It’s life that matters, Dolly. 
Gladys Elstree has never known what life means. She 
has never let herself go. She has never had one mo- 
ment that was fierce and fine and free. Her existence is 
absolutely colourless, and — ^what I hope she’s too stupid 
to know — absolutely useless. When she isn’t tending her 
mother, she’s organising meetings of the various societies 
which are known by their dissonant initials. It isn’t that 
she’s exactly a fool. She’s a well-read woman in a nar- 
row sense, and she used to take things in up to a point. 
But every spark of intelligence has been doused by the 
soft exactions of her mother. Gladys has been mentally 
overlayed. I don’t say that young sister of hers really 
lives. But she works off her animal spirits in a whole- 
some way. She resists her mother with what is prob- 
ably quite needless brutality. The fashions have changed 
a little, and she can find an outlet for energy without 
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doing anything more extravagant than appearing mildly 
unladylike to people who refuse new fashions. But Mrs. 
Elstree is just — lichen — grey and clinging and deadly. 
See my point?” 

Gerald had grown cool again. 

‘Ts it really as bad as that?” asked Dolly. 

“Worse if anything.” 

“You see, I never had any experience of that sort. My 
mother’s a very happy-go-lucky, cosmopolitan person. 
She has married a man with plenty of money. She has 
no responsibilities: she’s quite young still: and all she 
cares about is having a good time. She’s very fond of 
me, but I give her no anxiety.” 

“But she enjoys life and makes other people enjoy it. 
I don’t want to generalise, but ’pon my soul I believe the 
downright, ordinary, straightforward, selfish folk are 
the good folk. Dolly, you’ve got a daughter ” 

Dolly leaned back and laughed loudly. 

“You old proselytiser ! You’re taking it in time, aren’t 
you ?” 

“Yes, but I mean it seriously. It’s a thing I feel 
deeply.” 

“Katherine shall have a good time if I know how. 
And, Gerald, if you see me getting like Mrs. Elstree when 
I’m a bit older, I give you free leave to push me over 
Felshurst quarry.” 

“Which would be much too good a death for you, 
though none too quick. Mrs. Elstree has been dying for 
years, and will go on and on dying. Hullo — here’s Henry 
coming back. I shall have to go in a minute. Tell him 
what I say.” 

Henry came into the hall, where they were sitting, with 
his greatcoat still on. He brought vdth him an air of 
pleased importance. 


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— Gerald — afraid I should miss you. Heard some 
news. Got some tea for me?” 

He paused. 

''Guess!” he said. 

They both refused to do anything so energetic. 

"Fearful scandal in Utchester. Ethel Elstree’s gone 
and got engaged to Padler, the vet. Only happened yes- 
terday.” 

"Good for her,” said Gerald at once. "Padler’s a very 
decent chap. Well — she’s escaped. But I always thought 
she would.” 

"I don’t follow,” Henry said with a frown of bewilder- 
ment. "It’s very hard on the old lady. Break her heart, 
I should think. Pretty disgraceful, you know.” 

"Well, she’s always got Gladys,” said Dolly. 


318 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


T he nursery was a big, low room at the top of the 
house, lit by three windows. And there was a time 
which Dolly set apart every evening, when she went 
there. She would sit and watch her baby while she had 
her bath, and afterwards, when the nurse was gone, she 
would stay on for a while, singing old songs softly. 

In the summer she looked out through the barred win- 
dows to the tree-tops and the fields beyond : and the 
scent of the roses aspired, and she saw the long, blue 
shadows glide across the lawn. She could gaze upon 
her garden with her baby in her arms. And for her the 
paling flames of poppies and of marigolds peered through 
the dusk, and she would look again to the face upon her 
breast, the flower without an evening. 

Or by the fire in the winter time she sat and sang. 
And her baby in the shadowed cot sang too, murmur- 
ingly, trailing half-uttered words one into another, till 
sudden sleep cut short the lullaby. 

This was the crowning point of nursery days — ^the 
soft warm rug of many ardent colours, the high fender 
with its bright brass top glittering in the firelight, the 
little clock, the workbox on the mantelshelf, the doll that 
leaned against it, the pictures on the wall above — ^familiar 
things, simple and permanent : the shaded candle on the 
table with its old, red, ink-stained cloth, the wooden 

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coal-box with its green baize cover, the low chair. Dolly 
always used that chair, with its faded cretonne and its 
rattling castors, and drew it near the fire, and put her 
elbows on her knees, and gazed forward to the dim, en- 
chanted corner. ... In that chair she sat when the child 
of her flesh sucked at her breast and half turned away to 
happy sleep beneath her eyes. And here as time went on 
the child would creep, climbing softly from the cot to the 
fireside — not heard because intensity of thought for her 
absorbed her mother : and her arms would come in lov- 
ing violence about Dolly’s neck, and a further grace of 
five minutes would be entreated and then given. 

And this room was the whole world. Everything in 
it was there because her baby was there. The room 
arranged itself; it grew into something which must be 
stedfast and immemorial. Dolly would go softly out, 
regretful, pausing for a moment to look down upon the 
tumbled hair and the little flushed face, to drink in the 
breath that was the climax of all fragrance. And as she 
stood the clock would gently beat the old refrain that 
she had sung. . . . Tick-tack: tick-tack. . . . 


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BOOK TWO: CARRIED FORWARD 


BOOK TWO: CARRIED FORWARD 

CHAPTER I 


T here are many photographs in which Dick Faucet 
is prominent, taken about the time of his coming 
of age ; the big one of the twenty-firster at Oxford, which 
gives an impression of enormous staring eyes and 
blurred white waistcoats and preposterously foreshort- 
ened bananas; one bigger still of the whole family with 
tenants and friends upon the steps at Clenham; and 
there is a little snapshot of the memorable picnic by 
the arm of the canal. 

At the back stands Graham, grown stout now, and 
looking solemn as he always does when he has his pic- 
ture taken. With him is Henry, rather bald but very 
little altered in fifteen years, looking immeasurably unin- 
terested. In front of them, sitting on a fallen tree, are 
Dolly and Elsie. Dolly looks what is called a magnificent 
woman, just as at the time of her marriage she looked 
a fine girl. The lines of her body are beautiful, her 
head is held high as it always was, her big eyes look 
straight out of the picture, and her glorious dark hair 
sweeps in perfect harmony with the wide brim of an old 
hat. Elsie has lost her good looks, but not her trim little 
figure. The photograph has served to accentuate the 
puckers on her weather-beaten face. She has been a hard 

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rider in sunshine and rain all her life. The younger 
Faucet children — Maud and Eric — stand beside the 
group, making faces at each other. They have both 
moved at the psychological moment. Geraldine, the 
elder girl, is sitting on the ground at Dolly's feet — erect 
but very untidy; and next to her comes Dick, leaning 
on a tea basket, Avith an idiotically sentimental expression 
on his face, gazing at Katherine. 

There is not much to be said for it as a photograph. 
It was taken by an irrelevant young man, a friend of 
Dick. But prints of it are sacredly preserved. 

That was a wonderful picnic. It just happened to be 
so ; not an event anticipated for days, but a spontaneous 
little bit of merry-making casually conceived in the 
morning. Dick and his friend had ridden over to Needs 
after breakfast and had made the suggestion, purporting 
to come from his mother. At any rate it bore her author- 
ity. He had ridden over to Needs a good deal that 
summer. Dolly loved to see him on a horse. He was 
a strongly-built boy, not quite so tall or so fair as his 
father, but with a pink face always beaming with health 
and good humour. 

It was a hot, almost breathless, day in mid-September. 
The place appointed was an old rendezvous. The two 
families had picnicked there year by year. Every bush, 
every stone there was redolent with association. The 
canal curved round a corner of the Clenham estate ; the 
old waterway bore coal barges to Utchester from the 
North, and a further project of a branch canal had once 
been formed but abandoned after the cutting of half a 
mile or so. A swing-bridge crossed the uncompleted arm 
a few yards from its junction with the main canal. The 
dead end was all a-tanglewith rushes and flowering water- 
weeds, forget-me-nots and big, yellow flags, which grew, 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


tantalising, out of reach from the bank. On the far 
side the corn-field sloped upwards to a close horizon, on 
the near, a steep embankment, for the most part covered 
with brambles, slanted to a corner of the Clenham 
woods. From a lane by the bridge a stile gave upon 
this embankment, along which ran a little-used path. 
The bridge itself was an awkward contrivance of wood, 
painted black below and white above, weighted with 
enormous stones. On one side protruded a huge baulk 
of timber, by pushing against which a fair way could 
be made for the barges that never came. As a child, 
to swing the bridge had been Dick’s great ambition, 
almost hopeless of attainment. It was one of the most 
enviable of his father’s many accomplishments. But the 
fun of swinging it now with his brother and two sisters 
standing on it had not yet grown stale. 

Through each stage of their childhood Dick and 
Katherine had some memory of this place to recall. It 
had seen them quarrelling, it had seen them shy. It 
had been a first class place for Red Indians. It had 
been the Spanish Main. It had been a vast region per- 
functorily explored, for Dick had dreaded the day when 
all its secrets should be revealed. For there were bushes 
with dry and hollow interiors in which the smugglers 
who came from the Cornish seas above rolled their 
forbidden casks; and a little donga below where the 
British Army had ambushed a Boer commando, and 
where they had lit their first fire. There still remained 
some charred sticks, just as from the lowest branch of 
a little beech tree below the embankment there still hung 
some rotting strands of a rope ladder. Katherine had 
nearly come to grief over that, for your feet on a rope 
ladder have a nasty way of flying forward through the 
air. She had fallen and hurt herself. And the blood of 

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hot shame was in Dick’s cheeks now as he thought of 
it. It had been his fault. He had laughed at her for 
not doing the things that he did. Altogether Dick felt 
very generous and very thick in the throat about the 
old playground. So did Katherine, but she did not 
say so. 

This fairy land had been neglected for a couple of 
years, so that its size had dwindled with a jump. They 
all had their memories about it, except the irrelevant 
young man who couldn’t understand the fuss made over 
a place of quite ordinary prettiness. The two mothers 
had watched their children there. Graham could recall 
going there with his father. Henry resented memo- 
ries. . . . 

Dick and Katherine made a fire for the kettle in the 
donga, while their mothers cut bread and butter, and the 
wasps buzzed about the open pot of plum jam. Every- 
body ate an enormous tea, and, led by Graham, misbe- 
haved themselves, laughing uproariously. Maud and 
Eric raced each other, rolling down the embankment. 
In the extreme loneliness of the place Graham was pre- 
vailed upon to sing his favourite old song, 

‘T set out as a sailor 

And came back as you see, 

A cross between a Chinaman, 

A Turk, and a chimpanzee.” 

whilst they all joined in the chorus. 

Henry found something to correct in the words as 
given by Graham, but even he showed Eric an absurd 
trick with matches. 

Geraldine, with her blouse unevenly tucked in, doing 
up her shoe laces for the third time, leaned towards her 
mother. 

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the complete gentleman 


It s funny, slie drEwled, ^*we’ve never given this 
place a name.” 

‘'It’s had so many — Pitcairn Island — Ladysmith — 
Porthcurnow Cove ” 

“Yes, but those are separate bits. It ought to have a 
permanent name for the whole and father can have it 
put on the Ordnance map. That’d be splendid. Oh, 
there they go,” she added, half to herself. 

Katherine and Dick, after a perfunctory game of 
stump cricket with the younger children, had suddenly 
raced away into the marshy wilderness of reeds and 
rough grass and brambles beyond the end of the canal. 
It pleased Geraldine to be contemptuous of their be- 
haviour. She was older than Katherine. Katherine 
was only a child. It was absurd of Dick . . . and she 
saw less of him than she liked. 

The older members of the party began to talk of the 
change that had come, gradually at first and without 
their knowledge, and now with calamitous abruptness, 
in the fortunes of Gerald. Ever since he had refused 
the family living and retired from active priesthood, 
it had been generally supposed in the neighbourhood 
that he had lived upon the bounty of his elder brother. 
As a matter of fact he used to have ample means of his 
own. 

“Of course,” Elsie said, “it was that shocking cad, 
Maitland, in the first instance. Gerald lent him money — 
that was just before the row — and also invested largely 
in some perfectly absurd sugar company. It paid about 
one per cent, for some years and then went smash. Pm 
certain the whole thing was a swindle. And then, with- 
out saying a word — ^that’s the worst of it — he must go 
and gamble — speculate — it’s all the same thing.” 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘And that/' said Graham, “was the man who despised 
business and swore he didn't want any money.” 

“Well, I suppose he saw things were getting serious,” 
said Dolly, “and tried to put them right — like hundreds 
before him.” 

“Yes,” Graham answered, “but my point is that he 
ought to have come to me. I might have been able to 
help him. But oh, no; he must be independent. He's 
a perfect babe in all money matters and — there's the 
result.” 

“And the wonderful thing is,” said Dolly, “that he 
doesn't seem to care a bit. It's awfully plucky of him.” 

“I know. He really doesn’t seem to mind,” and 
Elsie looked as though Gerald had added a gross im- 
propriety to mercantile folly. 

“Poor old Gerald,” said Henry, “of course it's made 
a lot of difference to him. But he makes the best of 
it.” Privately he wondered how his friend had with- 
stood the shock. 

“He’d better start as a bookie and earn a living out 
of Gladys Elstree,” suggested Graham, and laughed 
boisterously. 

That was the second marvel that had occurred lately. 
Mrs. Elstree was dead, and her daughter, with an almost 
indecent hurry, had thrown up all her church-work and 
had take to race-going. It was the joke of the country- 
side: it was the country-side's most terrifying scandal. 
But there was the plain, unexaggerated fact. The four 
elders discussed it for some time. 

In the wilderness, out of sight and the sound of voices, 
Dick shed his cloak of exuberant joviality and became 
serious. He sat on the ground with one knee drawn up, 
and gazed at Katherine, who stood and prodded an iso- 
lated little patch of bog with a stick. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


'‘Katherine, do come and sit with me.’' 

'T’ve been sitting all the afternoon. So have you. 
You are a slacker.” 

“No, but I want to talk to you — — ” 

“Go ahead.” 

He looked hard at Katherine. She was very evasive. 
She was only fifteen, but it was impossible to regard 
her as a mere flapper. She was quite grown up really. 
She had the figure of a woman, tall and astoundingly 
beautiful. People said she was the living image of her 
mother as a girl. She was awfully like her now, and 
Mrs. Wedlaw was such a good sort. She was a really 
good pal. You could talk to her and say whatever you 
liked. She thoroughly understood you. And she was 
absurdly young to be the mother of Katherine. He saw 
that now, though she had been an old woman in his 
childhood. It was curious how one caught people up 
once you were a man yourself. It was much the same 
thing with Uncle Gerald, who had told him to drop the 
prefix. Dick was much preoccupied with people’s ages 
just now and with his own. 

“Katherine,” he said, “I’m twenty-one. ^Whatever 
you may say I’m a man. Interesting, isn’t it?” 

“Not a bit. You didn’t bring me through here and 
make me tear my dress to say that, did you?” 

“I didn’t! But you know what I mean. I am reck- 
oned accountable for my actions. I can’t plead infancy 
to the Oxford tradesmen any longer, supposing one did 
that sort of thing, and I should be liable in a breach of 
promise. ... So I’ll give you the chance and then if 
I back out you can sue me and get hundreds of pounds 
damages.” 

She threw a handful of turf at him. 

“No Katherine, do be serious. I say— I’ve always 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


meant it and I mean it still and always shall. You 
remember that day on the rope-ladder? There’s a bit 
of it still left. I told Aggett to see that it was never cut 
down.” 

‘‘Oh, you are an idiot. I thought you said you hated 
being sentimental.” 

‘‘So I do. This isn’t sentimental at all. It’s sober 
fact. You said that day ” 

“What I said when I was twelve doesn’t count.” 

“Well, say it again. Oh, I’m old enough to know 
now — know for certain. I love you. I love you fright- 
fully, and I always shall.” 

“Can’t help it, can I?” 

“But you do love me. You said so.” 

She suddenly came nearer and looked at him. He 
jumped up. 

“I do,” she said, with her eyes on his. “You know 
I do, Dick.” 

“And you’ll marry me?” 

“Of course, I will.” And they looked at each other, 
these two good friends, without embarrassment. Dick 
thrilled and the pulses drummed in his forehead. His 
hands shook as he took one of hers and kissed it. 
He was that sort of boy. He wanted to express his 
humility and his adoration. He felt that to take her 
in his arms as he longed to, would be to spoil it all in 
an indefinable way. It would be taking a plunge from 
which there could be no recovery. He had always been 
in love off and on with Katherine, and in much the same 
sort of way. He loathed to think that anything which 
he considered base should creep in. He believed that it 
was impossible. At Oxford lately he had been talking 
a great deal about love. He and his friends had sat 
from soft moonlight to pearly dawn by the open window 

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and said all that was in their minds about life and death. 
Some had said it fluently and some not. But the hour 
and their sworn companionship made them sincere. And 
some held that true love was pure and some admitted 
a carnal element, and one or two tried to gild the pill 
with timid little pickings from the science of physiology. 
But Dick was stedfast. He was quite certain that no 
fleshly smudge marred the spiritual refulgence of his own 
bright love. 

''People in books and things always laugh at calf love, 
don’t they?” he said to Katherine. "And they do in 
real life.” 

"Father does — smother doesn’t.” 

"I know. But what’s known as calf love when it 
goes on and on for a long time — well, it isn’t calf love 
then, is it?” 

"No, of course not.” 

"And anyhow now I’m old enough to be certain. You 
believe that, don’t you? And you always ” 

"Always. Dick, we shan’t see each other again for 
ages and ages. You’ll forget all about me when you’re 
in Spain.” 

"Katherine, don’t say things like that. Why should 
I ? Forget you ! I’ve got to buck up and pass my exam., 
and then we’ll get married.” 

That remote end was inevitable to both of them, 
though naturally Katherine dwelt lightly on the word, 
which stood for so uncon jecturable a fact. 

"I wonder if you’ll be in Paris,” she said, "or Vienna, 
or where? How long is it before you’re an ambas- 
sador?” 

"Not going to marry me before I’m an ambassador? 
Rather discouraging. As for Paris, I shall probably be 
sent to some potty little Central American place where 

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people knife you for tuppence and scorpions get in your 
boots. But you know, Katherine, it ought to be great 
fun. You must buck up and learn languages too.’’ 

‘T speak French better than you already. Dick, you’ll 
come home for Christmas, won’t you?” 

‘‘Rather: and you’ll come for rides?” 

“Of course, I will. I say, hadn’t we better get back? 
They’ll be wondering. And Maud and Eric will play 
the goat.” 

“They’re only kids,” said Dick. “But I suppose I 
mustn’t desert old Jack.” 

He looked at her intensely for a moment. 

“Oh, Katherine!” 

Then they ran off through the rough grass towards 
the trees beneath the embankment. 

After a little more fooling, a few games of hide and 
seek, the party began to make their way towards the 
farm where the carriages had been left. Their way lay 
through the fringe of the wood by the side of a little 
brook, whose clear waters slid beneath the hanging 
mosses and eddied about reflected stones. To the left 
there was a stretch of uncultivated land — stony with 
clumps of gorse and heather. It rose steeply from the 
stream, and beyond it, deep purple clouds were banked 
with golden rims against the crimson sky. The sun was 
going down. In one place a ragged, tumbled fence was 
broken by a yellow, earthy gap and a vague track made 
by occasional carts came into vision here and there with 
its ruts of palest ochre curving gently to the hill top. 
On the outskirts of the wood the leaves of one tree had 
turned a vivid gold standing amongst the dark remain- 
ing green of its neighbours. The light wind was com- 
ing up now, whistling through the grass and heather, 
and at a great height above them some carrion crows 

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swayed in their slow flight. But for their calls and the 
muted clatter of the little stream, there was no sound. 
It was still warm. 

Nearly all of them felt a kind of glow as they stood 
with the last direct sunbeams touching their hair, gleam- 
ing upon white linen. The picnic had been a fitting, 
homely ending to a full, exciting summer. They had all 
enjoyed themselves, not less so for the regretful knowl- 
edge that holidays were over. For Katherine was pres- 
ently returning to Brussels, and Eric and Maud would 
be going back to school too. Geraldine was going to 
share a studio with a friend in Kensington for a time, 
and work at the Slade. For Dick there would be a 
little pheasant shooting with his elders before he went 
to Spain. Only for those very elders would life gc on 
much as usual, with the tragic break at the summer’s 
end less emphasised. 

Dick looked at Katherine as they climbed the moor- 
land track. They were some way ahead of the others, 
and looking back they saw that they were already on a 
level with the top of the embankment and the canal. 
Beyond that again came the rising fields topped by a 
solitary group of trees which stood out black against a 
towering mountain of white cloud. 

A sudden strengthening of the breeze swept Kath- 
erine’s loose hair across her face and through the strands 
of it Dick saw her dancing eyes. It was not yet the 
moment of good-bye, but both realised with bitter sad- 
ness that here was the dividing line — now was the end 
of childhood. For Dick the world stretched out with 
details increasingly defined. He no longer lived from 
day to day. In some sort he knew what lay before him, 
what he was going to do. He was eager to plunge into 
it all, to find his feet. For Katherine there must be a 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


little respite yet . . . For her, half consciously, the 
sense of separation loomed tragic. She felt more truly 
the distinction between them. Really, she was only a 
little girl still . . . there was a vague barrier between 
her and Dick and she alone could see it. . . . 

And then she remembered that Dick and his friend 
and Geraldine were coming back with them to Needs 
for dinner, and there would be a chance of a surrepti- 
tious cigarette and after the heat of the day the evening 
breeze was very refreshing. 

From the hill top they ran ahead of the others towards 
the farm where the horses were. 


334 


CHAPTER II 


R egret for the summer’s ending was not confined 
to the younger generation. Dolly and Henry felt 
it too in their individual ways, or with them, particu- 
larly in Henry’s case, the experience was less regret in 
a definite form than a kind of seasonable stirring of the 
emotions, of which regret was one. 

Dolly, like the children, knew that the picnic marked 
an epoch. In the narrow and more literal sense Kath- 
erine was not quite done with childhood yet, but she was 
growing up — ^“Quite a little woman,” as a succession of 
their neighbours had put it for some years past. She 
had passed the chrysalid or awkward age. And for the 
first time Dolly fully realised that the moment was 
drawing near when Katherine’s womanhood would be 
asserted, when the child would merge in a measure either 
into the friend or the antagonist. But Dolly did not 
dread the prospect for that reason. She had given her 
mind freely to an understanding motherhood. For fif- 
teen years she had been occupied with her child and her 
husband, and never for a moment had she been content 
or unafraid lest her efforts should be fruitless. It had 
been fifteen years of ceaseless vigilance. Her wakeful 
mind had been ever on the look-out for predispositions 
that must be combated. And now for the first time, 
looking back and looking on, she felt a little prone to be 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


content. She had been very patient, very watchful. She 
had exerted her intelligence in all directions for their 
happiness and for her own; and she had been successful. 
The time had gone by very quickly. There had always 
been plenty to do. 

At the very beginning she had learned that upon her 
head, not upon her heart, must she depend. 

. . . Nothing had ever been said again about the 
money. Almost from the time of the trouble Dolly had 
tried to regard things from the same standpoint as at 
her marriage. She had determined, after a struggle, to 
be generous and to let Henry have his way. He had 
wished her to keep the money as hers, but he had also 
wished her to know that it was really his. She did know 
now and was unlikely to forget it. But she thought that 
Henry must be feeling himself the victim of a self-im- 
posed injustice in not technically holding his own money 
for his own handling. 

And all through the years she had tried, by silences 
rather than by words, by suggestion rather than by 
declamation, to wean Henry from his persistent attitude. 
In this she had for the most part failed. Nevertheless 
as time went on she had contrived (and the fashion of 
the changing age was with her) to eradicate in some 
degree his admiration for wealth and his outspoken 
sense of the importance of his family. That is to say, 
by the subtle handling of two specific instances she had 
made him a little less of a snob. Nevertheless constant 
association had dimmed her perception. She had suc- 
cessfully attacked the surface of Henry's failing in this 
respect, but as time went on she lost her power of pene- 
tration — at all events with regard to him. For instance, 
he was extremely fond of talking to people about the 
new Member, who was little known in that corner of 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


his constituency. He happened to belong to Henry’s 
club, and amongst a certain section of the community 
round about Needs Henry gained quite a name as a 
man who knew Mr. Gee-Went worth. He was always 
dragging the politician into conversation, apparently in 
order to belittle him. But the fact remained that he 
always did drag him in. Dolly failed to notice this sort 
of thing until by constant repetition it had become a 
bore. 

In the process of time she had made herself indis- 
pensable to Henry. She had been a good wife : she had 
petted him when he was ill, had seldom laughed at him, 
had given in upon a thousand personal questions so long 
as Katherine was not involved. There she had showed 
her courage when necessary, her strength of character at 
all times. Katherine had been a bone of contention on 
many occasions. That had been inevitable. But always 
in the end Henry’s final indifference had come to her 
aid. He had always accepted the teaching that a child — 
particularly a girl — was her mother’s affair only. For 
the most part he had been content to leave the child to 
Dolly. In the process of making herself necessary to 
Henry, it almost inevitably happened that Henry became 
necessary to her. Again and again as time went on, 
spite of memory all alive and the concentration of her 
intelligence, she felt upon the verge of giving way to 
something like the old passion. With only herself to 
think of she would gladly have put aside her careful 
management and trusted entirely to her heart ; she would 
have thrown herself at Henry’s feet in sheer desperate 
hope of a little tenderness. But with Katherine to think 
for, she must remain hard and strong. She must deny 
herself all chance, small as it was, of closer personal 

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relations, in order to keep her determined control upon 
the destinies of the child. 

Judged from the outside, from the standpoint of the 
majority of their neighbours, life at Needs had run 
upon ideal lines. Henry Wedlaw had inherited a nice 
old place from his mother, he had married a good sen- 
sible wife with plenty of money. They had settled down 
and had lived placidly and uneventfully, quite at one 
with the country-side. Farming, shooting, hunting, 
cricket, tennis, church on Sundays, breakfast, luncheon, 
tea and dinner, year in, year out : garden parties, dances, 
weddings, and an occasional funeral thrown in to remind 
us that we are all mortal ; now a rick on fire, now a bad 
fruit season, now a scare about swine fever. Once Dolly 
had taken a nasty toss at a fence and had been uncon- 
scious for a few minutes; influenza for Henry, mumps 
for Katherine; parties at Clenham, merry Christmases, 
happy new years. All perfectly normal and reputable, 
easy-going, safe-returning. . . . The neighbourhood 
had watched it all, found little to cavil at, accepted the 
household and the place as said, until gradually it merged 
into the inevitable and permanent. People were quite 
dimly aware that Dolly was a little different from them- 
selves. They found she was angry or excited about 
things which did not usually arouse anger or excitement. 
But there was nothing tangible and nothing to complain 
of. She was just a little eccentric. 

Such was the view of the outside world, and a nearer 
vision would have done little to disturb it. For to the 
closest observation life was spent very happily at Needs. 
It is true that Henry was always grumbling about some- 
thing invariably traceable to money, but this was taken 
as part of him — there was nothing very strange about 
it. He was a nice fellow, open-handed in the common 

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meaning, always making a good first impression with 
new acquaintances. He grumbled rather more as time 
went on, and was more irritable, but few save those who 
had not seen him for some time noticed this. He was 
rarely silent about anything that annoyed him, and Dolly 
imagined that she was fully aware of all his troubles, 
such as they were. There had been no more to learn 
about Henry since the birth of Katherine, she decided. 
Every time he did anything to hurt her he did it in a 
way she knew and was prepared for. But there had been 
very few rows and none of them serious. On the whole 
he had behaved well; and Dolly, short of being sat 
upon, had been very careful. It was this perpetual care- 
fulness which tried her most, and her own character 
paid the toll. Having for so long to think before she 
spoke, she had lost in spontaneity what she had gained 
in tact. Her bubbling jollity had suffered. She had 
become prone to say daring things not out of herself 
but to assert herself, for the sake of the daring. She had 
developed a dry humour. She said outrageous things 
without smiling, so that their laboured quality was not 
usually apparent. 

Ten years ago Bella Keene had been drowned off the 
French coast. And year by year Dolly realised more 
bitterly how much she had lost. Bella had been the one 
friend who said all that was in her mind, in whom, if 
she wanted to, she could confide. Not that she had ever 
spoken to her of her marriage save in the most general 
way, but with Bella there was little need for common- 
place confession or complaint. Bella had always known 
when she was in trouble and had helped her. Bella 
had gone and there was nobody else. Dolly could brook 
no substitute. She could talk with a certain degree 
of intimacy to various people — particularly Gerald Fau- 

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cet; but he was a man. She had no real safety-valve. 

It was no doubt partly owing to this that she occa- 
sionally lost patience. She always had a temper, and 
this occasionally made her say idiotic things which were 
liable to devastate in a moment all the good work wrought 
by months of tact and a carefully moderated course of 
repression. 

Dolly's most tempestuous anger seemed, on the face 
of it, unreasonable. But it might equally have been 
called the expression of her own old self, caught for a 
moment in some stray, returning glimpse. 

A couple of years previously when Gerald had been 
lunching with them one day, he began to elaborate a 
theory of conduct with the help of knives and forks. 

“Look here,” he said, moving a bowl of flowers and 
sweeping the fork and spoon in front of him into the 
domain that rightfully was Katherine’s, “from here to 
here we have a space of time — call it a life-time if you 
like. Very well. Here first of all comes beefsteak and 

kidney pudding — very nice too ” and he put down 

a knife. “Then here is a swim in the lake, next a deal 
on the Stock Exchange, here, where I put this fork, 
there’s a little fooling about with the seventh command- 
ment, here’s writing a play, here is throwing a boot at 
a tom cat — you follow?” 

Katherine and her mother laughed: Henry smiled a 
little and then looked glum. 

“Do go on — what happens next?” asked Katherine. 

“Oh, anything — just life. What I’m trying to show is 
that these things are fixed in time, and you come up to 
them. You’ve got to make your philosophy fit whatever 
happens. It’s what people call taking life as it comes. 
Or rather you’ve got to make your morals fit whatever 
happens and then that’s philosophy.” 

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Katherine was disappointed. She had hoped for 
further comic illustration. The solid text was beyond 
her. Dolly laughed again heartily and stopped rather 
suddenly when she recognised how close a resemblance 
the system bore to her own ideas. Henry quickly began 
to talk of cocker spaniels. 

When Gerald had gone, Katherine, with a child’s 
tendency to dilate upon what, though all very well at the 
time, does not bear repetition, grew enthusiastic. Gerald 
had played the clown in other ways that day as well. 

“Wasn’t he lovely, Daddie? The way he twiddled 
his fingers when he put the forks down — like that ! What 
did he mean by fooling about with the seventh command- 
ment ?” 

This was precisely what had annoyed Henry as being 
said before the child. It had attracted her attention as 
he was certain it would. Dolly made a face at him, but 
he took no notice. 

“You mustn’t take too much notice of what Mr. 
Faucet says,” he told her. “Sometimes he talks non- 
sense. He shouldn’t have said that.” 

“But what did he mean? Seventh commandment — 
thou shalt not take the name of thy — thou shalt honour — 
thou shalt — oh, whichever is it? I can only remember 
when I go right through them — oh, I know — thou shalt 
not commit adultery.” 

“Oh, leave it alone, Henry,” said Dolly, in an under- 
tone. 

“You’re not to laugh at that sort of thing, Katherine. 
It’s — it’s impure.” 

Katherine winced, looked away, and presently found 
an excuse to leave the room. 

Henry thought he had applied cold water in a very 
proper fashion. Impure — ^it was not his word: it was 

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not a natural word for him to use. It had been difficult 
to say it. But it was eminently suitable for a girl of 
thirteen. It was the recognised word. He had found it 
recurring again and again in a little book that his sister 
Evelyn had sent her: he had picked it up once and 
glanced through it in an idle moment. Yes — impure was 
the word that parsons used. 

‘‘Henry, what on earth do you want to put ideas 
into the child's head for?" Dolly asked. “Why couldn't 
you leave it alone? I've as dirty a mind as most people 
and I can't see any harm in it. Only you must go and 
rub it in." 

“On the contrary, she brought the subject up." 

“Yes, you go and snub her like that and of course 
she'll think about it and be depressed. And why use that 
filthy word?" 

This, coming on top of his self-congratulation, was 
very bitter. 

“What on earth do you mean? It's the word one 
uses." 

“One uses; one uses! It's words of that sort which, 
by association, make religion terrible to children. Can't 
you see that? If you must dwell on it why can't you say 
dirty or beastly?" 

“They're not proper words for a father to use to a 
daughter." 

“They're strong, rough and clean. Impure's oily and 
frightens people. I know it did me when I was a child. 
It's like removing a tumour. Cut it out, rip it out, hoick 
it out. It's the same. Bad things are always being made 
worse by damnable euphemisms." 

“You don't know what you're talking about. It isn't 
a euphemism." 

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‘‘Well, can’t you see how wholesome a little good slang 
is?” 

“Really, Dolly. You encourage Katherine — I won’t 
have it. All these modem young women use slang. Do 
you want her to grow up like these hoydens you always 
say you dislike so?” 

“Oh, I think I see what you’re getting at,” and the 
colour blazed in Dolly’s face. “It’s not lady-like, is it? 
It’s not refined. My great-grandmother was a drunken 
old cook — you know that, don’t you? You’ve reminded 
me often enough. Yes, she was. We’re not lady-like, 
Katherine and I, and that’s why — that’s why — oh, when 
I see you standing there with your clean collar and your 
nicely brushed hair — oh, you prig !” 

Henry said nothing, but raised his eyebrows. 

Dolly glared at him for a moment and rushed out of 
the room. 

Ten minutes later she came down to say that she was 
sorry, but that she had an unconquerable dislike for the 
right word. It was not the least use trying to explain 
that what she really disliked was Henry’s ready accep- 
tance of what was right without thinking about it for 
himself. 

And Henry forgave her generously enough at the 
moment, though he would remember the incident and 
use it on another occasion. 

Now and again Dolly awoke to the subtle change that 
was taking place within her. She found herself less at 
home amongst the friends of her girlhood : the painters 
and writers of the nineties in whose society she had once 
found much pleasure were not so easy to talk to as 
they used to be. On one occasion that she recalled with 
shame, she had spoken enthusiastically and with just 
a shade of affectation, about some wood-engravings she 

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had bought. She dilated upon their line and compo- 
sition. 

‘'Who cut them?” asked a grey-headed old painter. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

It was annoying to be caught out like that. She saw 
now that if she assumed an intelligent interest in the en- 
gravings she ought to have known a little more about 
them. Besides they were signed. She hadn’t even 
troubled to read the name. 

Still less easy was the companionship of the younger 
generation of artists. Dolly felt herself unable to go 
with the times. She began to think sometimes that her 
mind, which had made such an early start upon unac- 
cepted paths, had been unable to follow them up. She 
lived the greater part of the year in the country, con- 
tinuously occupied with her home and child. With her 
days so full she found that in most relations of life out- 
side her immediate responsibilities, she had no time to 
do other than take for granted what was most commonly 
taken for granted. She could think for herself when 
she chose, but the effort was too great. So when she 
came up to London and saw old friends and new ones 
of a similar kind, she felt dull and stupid, a country 
cousin, a back number. She was vivacious still, but 
she knew perfectly well that mere vivacity was not 
enough. As the years went by she spent less and less of 
her time in London. The house in Queen Street had long 
been given up. 

“You don’t really care about it,” Henry had said, 
“you don’t want it.” 

She knew his motive, but at the same time she knew 
that his spoken excuse was right. She really could do 
very well without the house : more and more London 
became a place to her where you spent a fortnight at 
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an hotel, did some shopping and went to a few theatres. 
It became more and more a place where you just spent 
money and where, without money, you could have no 
sort of a time. 

And then, as said, it happened periodically that Dolly 
would wake up and wonder whither she was drifting. 
Sometimes she did this unaided, sometimes after a talk 
with Gerald. She would see herself gradually becoming 
identified with the parochial point of view. She saw 
herself becoming at one with Henry by leaning to his 
side of the fence, not by drawing him to hers. And 
sometimes she would see Katherine growing up, not as 
Henry had put it, but essentially, like the girls who lived 
in and about Utchester. 

Then would come her quick rage. She would see 
red — she would passionately guard against these and 
other tendencies which the child might develop : and in 
an access of her zeal she would probably lose her temper, 
quite unjustly. 


345 


CHAPTER III 


'' I 'HEN there had been Katherine’s religious educa- 
tion. This, from the earliest days, had been a 
source of much perplexity to Dolly, and she had nobody 
to whom she could turn for help or even argument. In 
the country there was nothing in the subject to argue. 
Religion for children was a matter which, within the 
narrowest confines of variety, had been permanently and 
inflexibly agreed upon. And it was the one point on 
which Gerald Faucet refused to talk. He would not be 
responsible, he said. Dolly’s own upbringing in this 
respect had been perfectly normal: that is to say, she 
had been taught (after leaving her mother’s knee) that 
it was unwise to be extremely High Church, while to 
be extremely Low Church was unmistakably vulgar. 
That the great thing was to be just sensible Church, to 
be a regular though not emotional communicant, during 
the services to respond audibly but not aggressively, to 
say her prayers kneeling by her bed and not within that 
bed, to do as she would be done by. 

She had experienced little of the fervour which she 
observed, but did not deride, in other girls. She found 
herself unequal to it — that was all. As soon as she 
came to analyse her emotions in church she knew that 
they were not genuine. For a time, however, she still 
tried to induce them, as she had been told to : but this 
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effort taken in conjunction with her natural conduct out 
of church pointed the moral and she resolutely retired 
from the struggle. She would be a hypocrite for no 
man. Then her interest in dogma, which had never ab- 
sorbed her, died. At the time of her marriage she was 
a conventional Church-woman. She went to services be- 
cause it was customary to do so, and she never thought 
about it. Later on the need for a definite belief of some 
kind had imposed itself, but she had only succeeded in 
attaining vague opinions which she kept to herself. To 
her there was always a struggle between the attitude 
which she had been taught to assume and religion. For 
Dolly worshipped everything, in everything she saw the 
hand of God. There was no Devil in her theology. The 
world was a wonderful place, and something that was 
beautiful might be seen every day. She supposed she 
was a pagan : but she preferred not to label herself even 
in her own mind. There had been a night many years 
ago when she sat, cold, by an open window, face to 
face with the earth and sky. Something had happened 
then — some mystic sense had sprung up in her, some 
half-realised communion with things unseen. There had 
come other moments like that again, always elusive and 
transitory. She had been content to leave them unex- 
plained. . . . 

But when Katherine was in question, Dolly had 
qualms. She could not reconcile herself to teaching the 
child definite things which she did not herself believe. 
At the same time she hated the thought of making 
Katherine the victim of a fad. She had seen children 
like that once or twice in London, little mites who had 
less idea of God than their little black brudders in the 
uplands of Uganda. She wished Katherine to be excep- 
tional and to be guided against routine systems of con- 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


duct and views of life; she wanted her above all things 
to be individual, yet she dreaded the risk of an experi- 
ment. She knew perfectly well how in the accepted 
sense a child was handicapped by being brought up on 
singular lines. Yet if Katherine should have the strength 
of character ultimately to strike out for herself, she by 
no means would have been prejudiced. In a society 
where by far the majority of girls were built upon the 
same lines, Dolly reflected, surely one who was notably 
different would stand the best chance of success. What 
sort of success? Her argument implied social success. 
Good looks, brains — she hoped — a mind of her own, 
manners, money — social success would be assured. Was 
this or was this not a thing to be despised because she 
herself had in a measure despised it? On the whole 
she thought not. The world as it is was the world 
in which, of men the most, but of women absolutely all, 
must live. That being so, Katherine must be equipped 
for the world. Her own mother used to tell Dolly that 
the most original course to pursue in all things was the 
usual one provided that it was done perfectly. There 
was a too highly ‘‘moral” twang about that to please 
Dolly; though she could see how preferable it was to 
facile and meaningless nonconformities. 

These questionings in Dolly’s mind were repeated with 
various applications at intervals during Katherine’s early 
childhood, but at the beginning the problem concerned 
religion only. In the end her action was decided by the 
thought of possible revulsion in the future. People who 
were brought up with the exaggeration of piety fre- 
quently turned out rips: it was only human perversity. 
The contrary process seemed just as likely, and the 
thought of her child as a Plymouth Sister or a mission- 
ary, as a nun or even as organising secretary to the local 

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branch of the Mothers’ Union, filled her with apprehen- 
sion. She devoutly wished Katherine to be good, un- 
selfish, generous, eager to help, to be in close touch with 
all that was essential in life; but she dreaded the slight- 
est contact with professionalism. 

So she taught the child much as she had been taught 
herself, though she strictly avoided the punitive ele- 
ment suggested by an angry God and woeful Sundays. 
For Katherine God became a big, benignant fairy, to 
whom all good things were due, whereas all bad things 
were the direct outcome of what was bad in her. Guided 
by her mother, whose zeal inhibited the interference of 
nurses, she never connected evil with God. She never 
asked herself why He did not prevent sorrow and ill- 
fortune, much less why He sent it. So, what God lost 
in omnipotence. He gained in loving-kindness. 

So it went on through all the early years at home. 
Naturally as she grew older, Katherine began to pick 
up heresies from other children which could not so 
easily be explained away. But the first, her mother’s 
teaching, held the strongest position in her mind. And 
no assault upon it ever did more than merely puzzle 
her. 

Then at last the time came to which Dolly had been 
looking uneasily forward, when a more definite line must 
be taken. That had been a year ago, and Dolly looked 
back now with relief. Katherine was then fourteen. 
Again the old question arose. Was she to be confirmed? 
But now there was scarcely a moment’s hesitation. This, 
like the other ceremonials, must be observed for social 
reasons. Again, much as Dolly detested the governance 
of life by what is done and what is not done, it was 
exceedingly foolish to fly the red flag of a settled but 
rebellious opinion against overwhelming odds. And she 

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would be flying the red flag not on her own behalf, but 
on another’s who had never asked for it or been given 
the chance to ask for it as her especial criterion. And 
moreover, peculiarity in this would be objectively signifi- 
cant. Dolly did not wish Katherine in time to come, 
nor herself at the present moment, to be confused with 
some form of dissent — purely a social aspect again. 
Why should Katherine suffer for misunderstandings and 
come to revile her mother? So she must be confirmed. 

But now the position was quite different. Katherine 
was not a baby to take without questioning whatever was 
considered good for her; but a clear-headed girl, with 
plenty of ideas of her own, fully developed for her age — ■ 
a child, but not an unreasoning child. She was suffi- 
ciently able to think for herself for Dolly to leave the 
matter in her own hands. 

‘T’m not going to say anything about it,” she told her. 
‘Tfs a parson’s business and you’ll just go to Mr. 
Norwood’s classes at Utchester. I’m glad it isn’t Canon 
Moye, somehow. And you must think it all out for 
yourself — there’s a darling.” 

Canon Moye was dead and his widow had gone to 
carry the tale of the magnificence of her family else- 
where. 

Mr. Norwood had been, in the general estimation, an 
admirable choice on the part of the Bishop, in whose 
gift was the important living of Utchester. The stipend 
was a good one, and Mr. Norwood had large resources 
of his own. There were hardly any genuinely poor 
people in the parish. It was a prosperous church. Enor- 
mous sums had been spent upon its comparatively recent 
restoration, upon its embellishment, its new organ, its 
new flooring of oak blocks. Then the tin tabernacle at 
Puls ford has been replaced by a little edifice in stone, 

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There were already two other outlying churches in the 
mother parish. And every Sunday all these, but particu- 
larly the parish church, were filled with the higher bur- 
gesses and the lesser burgesses, who listened with pride 
to the sonorous measures of their organ, the no less 
sonorous enunciations of their dear vicar. Mr. Nor- 
wood was much beloved — ^that was the invariable phrase. 
He took the services with a mingled dignity and speed 
which was most highly gratifying to his parishioners. 
He read beautifully, he preached wonderfully, and was 
always absorbingly interesting. His sermons, though 
never too long, were always punctiliously opposite to 
the revolving points in the calendar. He had extremely 
little to say about sins — drink and adultery and such like 
coarse topics. There was really no need for it except — 
rather seldom — ^at services for men. But he now and 
again chided them roundly on vanity and the subtler 
forms of evil speaking. For the most part, however, he 
refrained from jobation and contented himself and his 
congregation with doctrine and with side issues of 
Church history. He was a martinet to his curates. 

Utchester was a self-complacent little country town 
full of well-to-do shop-keepers and surrounded by a well- 
established belt of their principal customers. Nobody 
was ever seen there in a shabby coat on Sundays. Every- 
thing was done in a model way. The Bishop frequently 
stayed a night at the vicarage. 

Dolly rather liked Mr. Norwood. He was what is 
known as a man of the world, a good talker, amusing, 
and his wife was a great improvement upon Mrs. Moye. 
Now that old Dr. Thorpe was dead, too, and a worser 
and younger man filled his room she occasionally drove 
over to Utchester on festivals. Tlie choir was remark- 
ably fine, the ceremonials were more fastidious, the serv- 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


ices more ornamental than in the little village church 
at Clenham. 

Well, she would leave Katherine in Mr. Norwood’s 
capable hands. 

When it came to the point, Katherine did think it 
out for herself as Dolly had suggested and came back 
to her mother with undisguised bewilderment. 

“He says that everything we do must be done to the 
glory of God,” she told her mother, “and when I said 
I didn’t understand he said he’d explain. That’s funny, 
because May Clarey said when she was prepared for 
Confirmation the clergyman there said just the same. 
And when she couldn’t understand he said there wasn’t 
any need to, you just believed it and that was all. Mr. 
Norwood did explain. At least he tried to. But I 
couldn’t follow it all. He says that everything you do 
which isn’t to the glory of God — even good things — is 
wicked. Do you believe that, mum?” 

“My dear child, you mustn’t ask me. I don’t know 
what it all means. I should have thought if you did 
something good it was good and if something bad — 
well — you know it, don’t you? Then if you’re sorry 
and don’t do it again, that’s all right. If you’re not 
sorry — ^well, then it isn’t all right. I don’t know. Dar- 
ling, I’m a perfectly hopeless person.” 

Dolly left it at that. She knew that Mr. Norwood 
was much too modern to leave a shred of downright 
honest mystery about knotty points where he could cloak 
it with scientific eloquence. She did not tell Katherine 
that this was the turning-point in her life. Mr. Nor- 
wood said quite enough about that. And Dolly thought 
it unwholesome to impose an artificial emotionalism upon 
a period of momentous physical development. Like her 
mother before her, Katherine found that with all the 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


will in the world she could not realize any sudden and 
spiritual change in herself. She noticed what was said 
to be the manifestation of it in other girls, she saw their 
tears, their abandon of religious ardour. She could not 
understand it, and with the moral support of her mother 
she admitted her failure. From the beginning Dolly 
had stedfastly tried to inculcate in Katherine the virtue 
of mental honesty. 

... So another stage was passed. Katherine was 
beautiful and gave the promise of greater beauty to come. 
She had brains. She was deliciously healthy and strong. 
She enjoyed everything. It only remained now to teach 
her one or two of the unavoidable facts of nature and 
now and henceforward — as throughout the past — ^to see 
that she had as happy a life as possible. 

. . . There she was now, shrieking with laughter in 
the hall with Geraldine and Dick and his friend, playing 
some idiotic game. Henry was in his room reading. 
Dolly looked at herself in the glass, touched her hair, 
and observed with pleasure that her flesh still looked 
firm, that the exercises she had been practising had in- 
deed removed her tendency to a double chin. She 
whisked round lightly and ran out of the drawing-room. 

going to be a baby too to-night,” she said. ‘‘Come 
— ^get a move on, child, and make room for an old ’un. 
tWhat is this game?” 

And she added her own splendid laughter to the rest. 


353 


CHAPTER IV 


'T’^HROUGH all the many years that he had known 
him, Gerald Faucet had put down Henry as a man 
who had perpetually denied himself his own gifts. Once, 
before Henry was married, he had congratulated him- 
self that Dolly would cure him. Evidently he had mis- 
calculated either her power or Henry’s obstinancy. 

Henry indeed was a man of unusual perception^ in 
certain directions, but all the artificial influences in his 
life had warred with them. It is impossible to say what 
starved proclivities had been latent in him in the past, 
what powers of expression. He might have been a 
painter, he might have been what he called a damned 
poet : more probably his expression would have been only 
in the manner of his life. But he had been a slave to 
custom, to the exaggeration of carefully preordained 
living which he took to be the highest idea for an Eng- 
lishman. It was not merely that he had moods of 
ecstatic appreciation of the things about him, but these 
moods were signalised by a curious intensity of emotion, 
which called for some sort of expression. On these 
occasions, Henry felt an almost overpowering impulse 
to laugh or sing or shout; but he always resisted it. 

Once the shameful tears had started to his eyes. This 
was when Katherine was quite a baby — three or four. 
It happened now and again, that in a jolly humour, he 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


would play with her, romp about the house, roll upon 
the grass, pretend to be a dog or cat. This sort of thing 
was exceedingly rare and became more infrequent as 
Katherine got older, until it ceased altogether. But there 
were merry times in those far-off days. 

That day Katherine begged to be taken into the 
kitchen garden and, once there, to the cage. This was a 
big erection of wire netting in which currants grew 
and raspberries safe from predatory birds. The well- 
manured ground was damp within, and Henry, always 
mindful of that sort of thing, bade the child stay outside 
on the dry gravel, whilst he picked the raspberries. 
Katherine cunningly fitted her little open mouth to a 
round opening in the wire and Henry popped in the 
fruit. Another, Daddie, another,” she asked him and 
he couldn’t resist her. He loved to see the crimson pulp 
against the dazzling little teeth, her face lifted up with 
the devilry of happy adventure in her big eyes: dark 
curls, tumbling from under a soft biscuit-coloured hat: 
lovely little hands with pointed fingers holding on to 
the wire. It went on for some minutes and then Henry 
was overcome by the beauty of it. He half turned away 
so that Katherine should not see. , . . That child, that 
lovely little child holding up her mouth to be given rasp- 
berries and kisses through the wire. . . . 

Then in the next moment came swift remembrance. 
He was behaving like a sentimental idiot again. This 
sort of thing was unhealthy, thoroughly unhealthy. That 
was the point of view which always struck him now — 
the unwholesomeness of his emotion. 

And that idea gained force. He was a strongly con- 
stituted man, but he took to imagining every small ache 
as the prelude to some horrible breakdown. And so 
his periodic access of vision seemed to indicate some 

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Vague disorder. With the marvellously tangible attribute 
of a vivid imagination he grew to believe that at these 
times he did not feel well, that there was some nervous 
weakness to account for it all. 

And he got into this way of thinking long before 
Annie Saunders came to- live at Clenham — early in the 
summer which closed with the picnic on the canal. 

Annie Saunders was Henry's old nurse. Until re- 
cently she had been living with a brother in Lincoln, but 
he died and she had returned to her native village to 
share a cottage with another ancient. Either of them 
might have sat very profitably for a picture of the witch 
of Endor. Before the marriage of Henry’s mother, 
when she lived at Needs, Annie had served there in 
various capacities until she left to become nurse. 

Dolly would ask the old lady up to see the place and 
compare it now with what it used to be, and from time 
to time Henry would go and see her in the village and 
stand chatting at her door. Her companion, Mrs. 
Woodney, never paid the smallest attention. She was 
stone deaf, and all day long would sit still, smoking a 
clay pipe and gazing at the fire. Elsie Faucet kept her 
in tobacco. 

One day old Annie was sitting by her door and Henry 
was trying to glean from her the condition of Needs 
as .a paying concern in the days of his grandfather. 

'T remember him telling about them gate posts,” she 
said, ‘‘when they was putting them in new, and the old 
ones was good oak too — leastwise so I heard say. Mr. 
Hilliard he would have them put in opposite to what 
they grew. I remember he was most particular about 
that. It kept the rain from rottin’ of them, he said: 
and then they’d last good ’most for ever. They’ll be 
the same posts now, Mr. Henry?” 

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“I expect so.” 

He wondered if Haywood had known that, and 
whether he had taught his son who was the bailiff now. 

‘T remember Mr. Hilliard going up to Clenham here — 
it might have been last year — the time they had the fire. 
A deal was burnt, I remember him saying — the big old 
coach they had there and the harness and carriages and 
all. Providence, I call it, don’t you, Mr. Henry?” 

*‘Er — yes : no doubt it was.” 

‘T’m always saying the Almighty’ll give Providence 
what for one of these days. Yes, and old Mr. Hilliard 
— ^fancy Miss Katherine being grown up almost and his 
great-granddaughter! — he was that fond of a cucumber 
and he’d peel off the skin and put it on his forehead. 
Made it cool, he said. I often think of it. You’d not 
be remembering him, would you, Mr. Henry?” 

''Very little, Annie, Pve a sort of recollection of 
being brought to see him here once. Wasn’t he very 
irritable ?” 

"Sometimes he was,” and Annie held up her face for 
a moment, seeming to peer into the far distance of time. 
"Yes, always a pickin’ your nose, you was, and he 
couldn’t abear it. I remember that.” 

Henry laughed uneasily, shifted his position and drew 
out his pipe. 

"No. I shouldn’t say he was irritable like — not as a 
rule,” Annie went on, "more brooding. Very brooding 
he was; especially towards the end before he was took 
queer.” 

"Was he ill then? I always thought it was that fall 
killed him.” 

The old woman looked at him for a moment, curi- 
ously. 

"I suppose your mamma she never told you and you 

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wouldn’t be likely to hear else. You see it was a many 
years ago. Oh, he was took queer in his head, was old 
Mr. Hilliard — ^your grandfather — very queer. Sadlike 
and brooding. Always brooding about the house. That 
restless, he’d never sit down for two minutes together.” 

Henry stared at her and looked away again. There 
was an unpleasant tingling all over his scalp, and a feel- 
ing of sudden shame. He had never heard a word of 
this. 

‘'Are you sure? Wasn’t he right in his head?” 

“Not just before the end he wasn’t. Oh, I remem- 
ber that — not before the end. They said he was quite 
mad. I remember George Severn, the coachman, say- 
ing ” 

Henry wished she was not so proud of her memory. 
For that day he could not endure to listen any more. 
But as he went away he knew that he must come again 
to try and piece together a fuller story. There was a 
horrible fascination to him in digging up this buried 
chapter of the past. So his grandfather — ^his mother’s 
father — had been mad — mad. . . . 

All these years, and he had never known it. Oh, but 
perhaps it was only an old woman’s tale. The memory 
which she was so pleased to exercise might well have 
played her a trick. He would ask Graham, perhaps he 
knew something about it. It was really very distressing. 
Henry hardly liked to put the story to this further test. 

Throughout the time he had lived at Needs his rela- 
tions with the Faucets, though cordial, had been strik- 
ingly lacking in intimacy. Knowing Graham as he had, 
almost all his life, he had never passed the stage of a 
sort of restrained good-fellowship. As this to Henry 
was the deepest form of friendship admissible he was 
quite unaware that there was something almost inhuman 

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in his attitude. With Dolly it was different; she loved 
the Faucets and they were devotedly attached to her. 
Women were such gushers, Henry thought to himself. 

It was even distasteful to ask the question which he 
must ask now. 

Anxious to settle the thing at once if Graham could 
help him, Henry went straight on instead of turning off 
on the road to Needs. 

‘‘Did you ever hear that my grandfather was off his 
head?’" he asked when, after tea, they strolled through 
the rhododendrons up the knoll towards the little grey 
temple. “Old Annie Saunders declares he was.” 

“Yes, now you come to say it, I have heard that 
too,” said Graham. “Of course, I don’t remember him 
any better than you do, I can only tell you what m’old 
father used to say.” 

“Do you — gather that it was supposed to be in the 
family ?” 

“Lord no! I don’t think it was what could fairly be 
called real madness at all. It was only when he was 
quite an old man. Didn’t he tumble downstairs later 
on?” 

“Yes, and he died soon after. In fact that did it. 
But are you sure he didn’t go off his head owing to the 
fall?” 

“No, I don’t think that. In fact I remember seeing 
him — Gad yes, and it’s more years ago than it does to 
think about — I saw him out one day by himself, and 
Mother said to me, ‘Don’t take any notice, poor Mr. 
Hilliard isn’t very well,’ and she drew me away. How 
that has stuck in my mind I I thought it funny of Mother 
to say that, because he didn’t look ill. Well, that must 
have been before he fell downstairs, for he never left 

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the house afterwards. But— more old age than anything, 
I expect.” 

So there was no doubt about it. There was no further 
need of corroboration now. Of course, there were 
various cousins scattered about the country whom he 
could ask, but there was no occasion to : and Michael — 
he wondered if Michael knew. Poor old Michael — ^what 
a funny chap he was. What a terribly lonely life he 
led, moving restlessly from place to place, from one 
hotel to another, now in London for a month with a 
short but dreary visit to Needs, now in Paris, and then 
in Tangier. Once he had gone big game shooting in 
East Africa by way of compensation for the Rocky 
Mountains expedition which had. been given up, and 
Henry had gone with him. But the effort had seemed 
to wear Michael out. How depressed he had been the 
last time they met — always brooding by himself — brood- 
ing — ^the word Annie had used of their grandfather. 
Supposing that Michael went the same way. . . . 

And these emotional attacks to which he himself was 
prone. No; they were not healthy. He had never 
thought they were. Were they preliminary to some — • 
some — say — nervous breakdown? Was there some slow- 
evolving canker in the blood, some maggot, some kink, 
which was a long time coming to its full and ugly growth, 
but which was ineradicable and sure? He was not so 
young as he used to be. . . . He was growing fond of 
saying that now. Three more years and he would be 
fifty, though, to be sure, everyone told him he did not 
look it. Perhaps he did not. Physically he had led an 
extremely healthy life, he had been very temperate, he 
had lived in the open air, and would go on doing so. 
But he was past middle age all the same. People laughed 
at that. Gerald Faucet had been born in the same year 
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and called himself a young man still, and he was. But 
Henry was different. He would have to look after 
himself. 

Nonsense, nonsense, he thought. And he squared his 
shoulders and walked the faster to assure himself of 
his absolute bodily fitness. Rubbish — why a saner man 
than he never threw his leg over a good horse. Ah — 
there was the house, and the soft red of the gable end 
was showing through the trees. He was glad to get 
home. He would say nothing to Dolly of his discovery, 
nor of his foolish fears. It would only worry her. 
He mustn’t do that, he must stand alone and be a man. 
But what a comfort it was to return home. . . . 

He suddenly remembered how, many years ago, he 
had once or twice allowed Dolly to know about his queer 
and morbid turns, and how she had snubbed him. Quite 
right too, he thought to himself : she had taken him for 
a sentimental ass. How could she know of his damned 
inheritance ? 

His mental attitude to Dolly had been now for some 
time a curious one. He might really have forgotten that 
he had married her deliberately for money. It was a long 
time ago, and the process of years had insensibly worked 
in him. He took his wife for granted now, as other 
men do: he was used to her. But with him it was not 
the decline of a passionate love into settled and inevi- 
table affection, it would be more nearly described as the 
growth of a sentimental need, from a cold, but in a way 
appreciative, patronage. He had always admired Dolly, 
he did so still. In the past he had been at perpetual war 
with her point of view, but now, whilst still antagonistic, 
he had come to see that their disagreement did not mat- 
ter so much. Fewer things indeed mattered now. He 
was a discontented man, a disappointed man, but it 

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would have been impossible for him to say what he had 
not got that he had hoped for, or what material circum- 
stances could have been altered to suit him better. But 
some of Dolly's irritating little habits were certainly not 
among them. He never thought about Dolly in that way 
now. It still pleased him to see her well dressed; he 
still admired her capabilities in running the house; he 
definitely said to himself now and again that she looked 
uncommonly fine on a horse. But that was all. He did 
not tell himself that he loved her, or wonder whether 
she loved him. She was just there, and he would have 
been quite unable to imagine life without her. He had 
suffered agonies when she fell out hunting until he knew 
that she was npt seriously hurt, but he could never have 
said what inspired his state of mind. In spite of this 
negative outlook, he frequently did little things to please 
her. That at the same time he pleased himself — any- 
how more than when he took the house for her in 
Queen Street, and moreover that he felt complacent in 
a duty performed, was less to the point now than it 
might have been years ago. She would have been a 
great deal more pleased if she could have chosen what- 
ever benefits fell from his hand, but the emotional effect 
was made. 

It may be said then that, on Dolly’s side consciously 
and on Henry’s unconsciously, they got on fairly well. 
In the finest sense as applied to husband and wife, they 
had become strangers; yet in the purely domestic sense 
they approached, if they did not quite reach, identity of 
outlook. 

He had always been true to Dolly. He thought of 
that from time to time with great satisfaction. When 
he had married her he had made it a definite condition 
in his own mind that as an honourable man he should 
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be faithful. Not once nor twice in the days of Kath- 
erine’s childhood had the contrary impulse come to 
him. In London and abroad he could have played old 
Harry if he had liked, and he had come very near to lik- 
ing once or twice. . . . 

Whatever had happened in the past he had always 
been a good husband, he thought. He might have been 
a bit of a brute once or twice — ^he had really forgot- 
ten — but he had an idea that it was so : but his faithful- 
ness atoned, he was quite satisfied as to that. 


363 


CHAPTER V 


F rom the bridge where Dolly stood with Gerald 
Faucet the canal ran straightly eastward; the lines 
of the towing path receding from a generous width near 
at hand, where some boys were fishing, to the purple 
gloom of the distant tunnel. There by some iron rail- 
ings Dolly could just make out the forms of children 
playing — one of them made a splash of vivid green 
against the blue-grey stonework. Left and right were 
rows of little trees, their dying leaves ruddy in the thin 
sunlight. Over the tunnel’s mouth was a big hoarding — 
a confusion of brilliancies, and in the misty air beyond 
rose shimmering red buildings. Halfway down the canal 
itself the cabin of a barge gave a broad patch of pure 
scarlet. The water streaked away without a ripple, 
margined with red reflections from the trees. 

‘T’m glad you brought me here,” said Dolly, “and 
you’re quite right about the Clenham Canal.” 

Gerald had been arguing that a canal was in sympathy 
with its urban banks, whereas in the country it was but 
an imitation river. 

“This sort of thing,” Dolly went on— “is real fun to 
you, discovering unsuspected beauties.” 

“I suspect the whole of London. It’s the most beauti- 
ful place in the world.” 

“I suppose you mean if you know how to look at it?” 

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‘‘Don’t say that, it implies superiority and suggests 
insincerity. London is the most beautiful place. Look — 
life and colour. It’s all like that really. If there’s any- 
thing better I’m too old to want it.” 

They stood still a little longer while the light changed 
and the colours before them grew colder, forms less 
defined. 

Dolly had come up for a few days and was keeping 
an old promise to Gerald in spending the late autumn 
afternoon with him. He had taken her from point to 
point on motorbuses, with little walks here and there to 
gain some place of vantage. 

“And you’re absolutely Happy in your noisy old 
beautiful London?” 

“Absolutely. There’s a tremendous lot to do and 
enjoy, you know. Please don’t be too delicate, Dolly. 
Did you really imagine that the change in my banking 
account would make any difference?” 

“Of course, it must to a certain extent.” 

“In no essentials.” 

“Poor old Gerald. You’re so plucky, and it’s such 
Irnrd luck.” 

“It isn’t indeed. I do want you at least to realise 
that I’m telling you the literal truth. Surely you can 
grasp the fact that my life is just the same. I know 
Henry can’t. I wish he could. What is it, after all? 
I live in three rooms, instead of nine or ten. I spend 
less on eating and drinking and clothes. I have been 
forced to part with many accessories which pleased me, 
but it doesn’t make any real difference. I do much the 
same as I used to do, I am only forbidden one or two 
of my hobbies.” 

“I suppose it comes to this — you never learnt to depend 
on money.” 

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‘T was afraid I had at one time, but I suppose it 
was a false alarm. Honestly, Dolly, the concern of poor 
old Graham and Henry and people like that is most 
amusing.’' 

"'Men have cut their throats for less.” 

"I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Of course it’s a capital 
folly to deride money up to a certain point. And who 
is to say where that point lies? A living wage — what 
is a living wage? Graham might say that it would be 
sufficient to keep you without embarrassment in that 
state of life in which it had pleased the Radical Govern- 
ment to leave you. The thing is quite unarguable. But 
what I can’t get over is the common attitude to money. 
Look at the nice people — what in many respects you and 
I call nice people — scrabbling in the dirt, crawling and 
creeping to get near the very smell of it. You hear 
them crying that money is everything now — ^but so it 
is.” 

"Hasn’t it always been like that?” 

"To a certain extent perhaps. But it’s more obvious 
nowadays. Beyond that vague legitimate point the ex- 
istence of which I allow — the grovelling to money is 
simply a sign of enormous stupidity. It’s the ad- 
mission of weakness and folly. To be happy without 
money requires hard work or brains. It requires plot- 
ting and scheming — ^not to find the cheap imitation, but 
to discover the genuine substitute. By the same token, 
Avith pots of money happiness requires the same qualities 
if you are to escape from the most terrible boredom.” 

"‘Do you mind my telling you something? I don’t 
want to be malicious ” 

"Which means that you do. Please don’t apologise.” 

"Well,” Dolly laughed, "some of the dear folk round 
us reckon your misfortunes a sort of punishment for 
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past misdeeds. How people love to think that any pro- 
ceeding they dislike is punished. They call it poetic 
justice.’' 

“Justice is never poetic,” said Gerald, “but I wish 
Henry could realise the position.” 

“Your contentment beats him altogether. Do you 
know, if he followed up his thoughts about you reason- 
ably the whole principle of his life would be undermined. 
It would upset everything he ever believed. He can’t 
see it.” 

Gerald was silent for a moment or two and they 
moved away from the bridge, and crossing the road, 
walked down one side of the big still pool, the confluence 
of three canals, under the shadow of trees and over- 
looked by dim mysterious little houses. 

“Every man has his chance,” he said at last, “however 
obstinate he may be. I have an idea that to everyone 
there comes a moment when he must either accept what 
appears to him some terrific paradox or stick for ever. 
You must know what I mean. I am perfectly certain 
that you have been faced at some time or other in your 
life with some catastrophe topsy-turveydom and believed 
in it and gone on. I wonder if I have, I hope I have.” 

“Perhaps you did when you gave up being a parson.” 

Dolly said it tentatively, hoping to hear more. 

“Perhaps I did,” said Gerald. 

“Of course that’s what happened to Gladys Elstree.” 

“Gladys Elstree? What do you mean? K ever there 
was a deaf adder ” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t heard? 
Gerald — it’s the most gorgeous thing that ever hap- 
pened and — ^you haven’t heard!” 

“You know, I haven’t been down your way for some 
time. I don’t hear much gossip. Please tell me. I 

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knew her mother was dead and that she’d left Utchester.” 

“Well, Ethel and her husband, the vet, went to live 
near Cambridge some years ago.” 

“Now there is a case in point. If anyone made the 
great jump, it was Ethel. Yes?” 

“Gladys has gone and taken a cottage near them. 
Padler has been very successful and runs a few horses 
of his own. One of them is Red Rat, who won me some 
money last year, bless her. We saw Gladys at New- 
market — at Newmarket, Gerald. She never misses a 
race. Her clothes are riotous. She told me an appalling 
story. She literally lives for horses, and instead of 
embroidering stoles for curates she does horse cloths 
for Red Rat. Six to four the Field! Isn’t it price- 
less ?” 

Gerald stood still and stared, then burst into loud 
laughter. 

“Yes,” he said at last. “That’s a good instance. How 
delightful,” and he laughed again. “Don’t fail to mark 
the real significance of this, Dolly. I have no doubt that 
the good folk of Utchester would be sincerely grieved, 
just as you and I chortle in a ribald fashion. But observe 
what it means. It isn’t only reaction from the deadness 
of all those wasted years. It would have been much 
easier for her to go on as before. It means that she 
has allowed herself to be convinced at last of the im- 
portance of life. It means that she has recognised the 
essential virtues of the vulgar but excellent Padler. Rac- 
ing bores me and I passionately loathe its camp follow- 
ers, but it’s out in the open air and vigorous. Inwards 
it is clean. And Gladys is enjoying herself at last. I’m 
sure she’s a first-rate aunt to Ethel’s children.” 

“She is, and when I saw her she really reminded me 
of my poor old Bella.” 

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'‘You couldn’t say more than that, Dolly. Lord! 
now you come to think of it, she might have taken up 
Futurism. Has it ever occurred to you, Dolly, how 
really times have changed?” 

“You mean Futurism?” 

“That sort of thing generally.” 

“Fve been out of it for so long now. Fve not thought 
much about it. To tell the truth I thought that Futurism 
showed that times had not changed. To-day provokes 
the laughter of the very people who in the nineties 
stirred the wrath of the mid-Victorians.” 

“That’s only one way of looking at it. I may be 
wrong, but the new movements^ — ^the dear old word still 
clings — seems to me to express the coldness, the science, 
the carefulness of the age. In the early nineties they 
were much more thorough-going. The old daycadongs 
used to drink themselves to death with such gusto. But 
now they’re bloodless and canny and commercial. They 
live their hygienic little lives and sip their Vichy with 
limper hearts and knocking knees. They do the same 
sort of things in other ways though. Do you remember 
how we went to one of Tom Sail’s parties once and they 
all sat round in glum silence for fear of saying some- 
thing ordinary. Oh, Dolly, they’re still the same — ^some 
of ’em. But some again manage to sow a seed ” 

“Or a germ.” 

“As you will — ^but there’s always some result in the 
end.” 

“I always looked on these wild new dodges as tricks 
to evade certain obvious limitations. I should call fu- 
turist drawing a case in point.” 

“But there’s a certain driving power in the invention 
of a trick. Of course, where they fail is in trying to 
despise the past. I am perfectly certain that if Pendennis 

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were published this year as a new book by a new author, 
the younger critics would describe it as Thackeray and 
water. They are always convicted out of their own 
mouths. Let's get into this splendid 'bus. Henry will 
turn up, won’t he?” 

“Yes, he’s been lunching with Burshall.” 

“Burshall! Let us talk of Burshall.” 

“You hate him, don’t you, Gerald? So do I. But 
he’s honest — which is something in these days.” 

“Yes, I dare say he is honest. So much depends upon 
his definition of honesty, doesn’t it? I believe he is one 
of the people who justify the funny papers — very late 
home from the club and so on. He’s very great on 
schools and school-days, you know. Burshall would like 
to count the Public schools on three fingers, — he’s that 
sort of man — but that, in order to include his own, he 
has to use the whole hand. Whom do you think he 
was with the other day? I didn’t see him, but a fellow 
told me.” 

“Well?” 

“Oliver Maitland.” 

“Oh,” said Dolly indifferently. Maitland’s name was 
seldom mentioned, though it appeared in newspapers 
from time to time. “I thought Burshall didn’t approve 
of him — but it’s so long ago.” 

“You must remember,” Gerald said, “that Burshall 
has a very kind heart. He has let bygones be bygone. 
Moreover, I believe that Maitland has made money and 
that he can pull certain strings. To the best of my be- 
lief he hasn’t been in England for many years. Oh, yes. 
Burshall has a kind heart and bears no malice. I’ve 
changed my mind, Dolly, I don’t think we will talk of 
Burshall. You know, between you and me, I don’t bear 

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malice either — Maitland, I mean, and so far as I am 
concerned. But he’s a cad quite apart from that.” 

“Gerald, you said I wasn’t to be too delicate. Did he 
swindle you?” 

“Oh, in the past, of course. I’m a frantically unbusi- 
nesslike person, and I haven’t discovered until lately how 
badly I was let in. You see, I kept pouring good money 
after bad, as they say, and then seeing that I’d lost a 
good bit, I thought I’d try and put things right by a 
biggish gamble. It just shows you that after all I was 
greedy in the commonplace way like other people. I 
pretended, you know, never to care about money and 
of course I lost pretty well everything. Fortunately I 
had the house to let. But I’m glad now — I really am.” 

“It has shown you your powers, Gerald. It has proved 
for you that you can get along without accessories.” 

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.” 

“You’ve been having one of your retreats, haven’t 
you?” 

« 9f 

m. 

“Gerald, do tell me. You and your retreats are so 
mysterious. Where do you go and what do you do? 
I’ve always longed to know. Do you go to some sort of 
monastery and meditate as they do at Mirfield — isn’t it?” 

“Meditate a bit, you know, and mess about with other 
people’s affairs. No mystery about it.” 

It was obvious that he would say no more, and the 
denial of the mystery only deepened it. At the same 
time, Dolly was unsatisfied. Gerald was a dear, but 
she felt herself coming round to the common view, 
held of him by Graham and others. He did nothing, 
he had no tangible purpose in life. He was idle. It was 
all talk and no do. She could not help thinking some- 
times that Gerald’s was a wasted life. 


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On their arrival at his rooms, they found Henry 
waiting. Dolly saw at once that he was very ill at ease. 
He had not wanted to come to Gerald's place. 

‘^Why can’t he come to the hotel?” he had asked Dolly. 
‘T hate going there. It looks so much like spying out 
the nakedness of the land — some filthy slum.” 

But Dolly had insisted. 

Gerald had contrived to be extremely comfortable in 
his three rooms. From the wreck of his fortune he had 
saved some of his best and most appropriate furniture. 
The place seemed quite clean. The woman who brought 
in the tea was cross-eyed but tidy. 

Perhaps, Henry decided, it was not quite a slum, but 
the name of the street was new to him. No one lived 
in the district — no one at all. 

Gerald entertained them much as he had done in the 
old days, save that instead of producing new treasures 
for their approval, he contented himself with conversa- 
tion. But it was a difficult task. Henry was self-con- 
scious and shy. He kept his eyes rigidly from wandering 
about the little room. He forbore to ask personal ques- 
tions. He answered Gerald — yes and no, and found 
himself imable to talk of anything except politics. Dolly, 
led by Gerald, showed a disposition to discuss the neigh- 
bourhood and the arrangement of the furniture, but 
every word which implied commendation or interest 
drew a quick glance from Henry’s eyes. 

As Gerald was seeing them off from his door step, a 
small urchin begged Henry for a cigarette picture. 
Henry shook his head as he beckoned to the driver of an 
approaching taxi. 

“You’re a very unobservant little boy,” said Gerald, 
“can’t you see he doesn’t smoke that sort of cigarettes. 

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There, ’ he added to the abashed Henry, while Dolly 
frankly laughed, ‘TVe said it for you.” 

Driving back to the hotel Henry sullenly complained 
to Dolly of her behaviour. 

‘Tfs very bad taste,” he said, ‘‘to go rubbing it in 
like that. Gerald's not a fool. Do you suppose he can't 
see through your pretence of admiring the view?” 

“There was no pretence about it. They're lovely old 
houses over the way. And I do honestly think his door- 
way is delightful. Those carved brackets — really it's a 
nicer house to look at than his own place.” 

“You know very well what I mean.” 

As he said it, Henry was unhappily aware of a certain 
inconsistency. Only the day before, though he had not, 
and would not have admitted it to Dolly, he had been in 
Gerald's neighbourhood, searching for the unsavoury 
lair of an old acquaintance from South America. The 
man in question was staying in a foreign boarding-house 
a few streets away — a picturesque old scamp with a huge 
white moustache and a black villain's hat pulled on one 
side of his head. There were other very queer fish in 
this boarding-house who made furtive entrances and 
exits while he was talking to the old man. And think- 
ing of it all as he walked away up the dingy street, Henry 
had felt a sudden glow that this strange and unaccount- 
able life should be going on in London within five min- 
utes of Piccadilly. There was no violent contrast about 
the scene, no incongruous meeting of East and West as 
in the case of some Chinese opium-den. It was just 
strange, and for one moment Henry had appreciated this 
splendid strangeness of London to the full. In the next 
he had noticed a bad smell and hurried away. 

“Oh, can't you see,” Dolly went on, “can't you see that 
Gerald doesn't care two pins because he's poor? You 

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really did make me want to laugh. You were so re- 
strained and quiet. You think his losing his money is 
something to be ashamed of — just exactly as some peo- 
ple think of cancer or penal servitude — to be mentioned 
only with bated breath/’ — and she laughed. 

“You don’t seem to see that it's a very serious mat- 
ter.” 

“No — I don’t. He’s got no one but himself to think 
of. He’s perfectly happy and does the same things he 
always did.” 

“Now that’s nonsense. He hasn’t even got his man- 
servant — only that slut of a housekeeper. No, there’s 
no getting away from it — poor old Gerald’s a failure.” 

“Whenever you speak of a failure, in nine cases out 
of ten, you merely mean someone who has failed to make 
money, or, as in this case, to keep it.” 

“Well, I should much like to know what else you could 
mean.” 

There was not the slightest use in going on. There 
never had been. But Dolly was tormented by curiosity. 
She began to wonder how far Henry’s sense of logic 
would carry him along that road. Years ago he had 
taken up Burshall whom he had once affected to despise, 
solely because he had made money. If he had forgiven 
Burshall’s vulgarity on that account, might he not find 
it in his heart to condone the gilded rascalities of Oliver 
Maitland? Indeed, it seemed inevitable. The detested 
name had already cropped up that afternoon, and Dolly 
had schooled herself. Now without any palpable re- 
luctance she asked Henry if Burshall had spoken of 
Maitland. 

“Gerald had heard he was in England,” she said, “and 
that he had been seen with Burshall ” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘Yes/’ said Henry. “He even asked me to come and 
meet him at his infernal pot-house.” 

“And will you?” 

“Good Lord, no! What do you take me for? I 
know it’s a long time ago, but you seem to forget. There 
was that woman he left in the cart, and he cheated Gerald. 
He made a fool of me, too — though that’s nothing. It’s 
his treatment of Gerald, who’d been good to him over 
and over again, that I can’t get over. I told Burshall 
pretty plain what I thought.” 

“Of course, you were quite right,” said Dolly. “It 
was stupid of me.” 

She sat back in the taxi. With profound joy it came 
to her that she had been unjust. She restrained a strong 
inclination to link her arm in Henry’s, to make some 
display of her sudden access of affection. Oh, he was 
faithful to Gerald, he would have none of Oliver Mait- 
land for his swindling of Gerald. He was true to her. 
That she knew with utter certainty. How faithful he 
was . . . his faithfulness was stronger than all else in 
him. 


375 


CHAPTER VI 


Tj^OR Oliver Maitland all that was best in the City of 
London was summed up in Burshall. He was ob- 
viously an acute, hard-headed man of business. And, out 
of office hours, he was a thoroughly good companion, a 
first-rate sportsman, a careful host, he could tell a story. 
Ah, well, thought Oliver, England was a good place for 
a holiday. It was very nice to come back to the Mother- 
country after all these years, fine to talk regretfully over 
old days with Burshall and more particularly their life 
at school. Oliver was not troubled by the fact that cer- 
tain people were silly enough to ignore him. It was their 
narrow minds and long memories — or was it merely 
jealousy? Of course that was the real reason. Oliver 
laughed to himself. Look at them — only look at them ! — 
and compare them with himself! Burshall, too, he re- 
membered, had quarrelled with him in the past. They 
did quarrel, didn’t they ? It was really very hard to call 
it all to mind. But since then he had come to his senses. 
On Oliver’s last visit to England seven or eight years 
ago, they had met and arranged a little deal together, 
mutually profitable. They had corresponded since. Yes, 
of all his old friends Burshall was the only one who had 
made good. He could have retired long ago if he had 
chosen. Indeed he had a very nice place in the country, 
with a good shoot. His wife and children spent most 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


of their time there, leaving Burshall a free hand. . . . 
But he liked to keep in harness. He liked work and 
there was plenty more money to be made yet. 

There was Henry, of whom Oliver had heard through 
Burshall from time to time. There he was, stuck in the 
mud — ^nobody at all. But then of course it was never 
to be supposed that Henry would be anything. He 
seemed bom to be a pettifogging squireen. He never 
had any brains. 

And Gerald Faucet — one of life’s failures. Thinking 
it over for the one minute that was hardly worth while, 
Maitland had a vague recollection that he had made 
Gerald useful to him. So he had — yes. And Gerald 
was one of those damned fools who allowed themselves 
to be useful and who sought nothing in return. So much 
the worse for them. Now he could respect Burshall. 
Burshall had a sound knowledge of business. Burshall 
had very nearly as good a head as his own so far as 
mercantile concerns went: only, of course, it was a 
very inferior type of head, because outside of business 
Burshall hardly existed. That was where he himself 
had the pull of people — his scholarship, his power of 
speaking. . . . Yes, most emphatically he had made 
good. He had all the money he w'anted. He was at- 
torney-general for a highly important colony, and there 
was assured to him a future of growing power, riches 
and enjoyment. There was only one little point in which 
he was unable to feel satisfied. It was so long ago he had 
almost forgotten, but not quite. There was a sentimental 
memory. . . . He had never wanted to marry: even 
under the best possible conditions it was a tie upon a 
man. But if ever he had felt inclined to marry, he knew 
the sort of woman he would have chosen. For a long 
time he had been wondering about Dolly. What was she 

377 


the complete gentleman 


like now ? Burshall would be able to tell him. He must 
ask him to-night. 

In the meantime it was doubtful whether Burshall' 
was much of a hand at Bridge. Oliver looked into his 
diary and saw that he was three pounds up on the 
week’s play so far. But that had included a very tame 
evening with some ridiculous women. He must alter 
this to-night, if he was to keep up his self-respect. Still — - 
you never know — some of these fellows in the old coun- 
try were pretty spry. Yes: he must do Burshall in for 
a bit. 

Burshall is thoroughly satisfied with himself, and quite 
right too. As they walk round to Pym’s, Oliver notices 
the measured dignity of his stride, and the manner in 
which he acknowledges the salutation of clerks and other 
inferior people who are hurrying to the A.B.C. One day 
if they keep up their manners and pay the strictest atten- 
tion to the laws of gravity in Business, they too may drop 
in for a Martini somewhere before settling comfortably 
to their oysters. Importance of mien, affability, and 
good clothes characterize Burshall if they do not distin- 
guish him. He makes the most of his thin dark hair, 
which passes through the barber’s anxious comb every 
other day. The pink plump face, the merry eyes, only 
grow stern, only shine dark, when some younger man 
has taken a liberty, or when Swashmucker Preferentials 
have fallen a point or two. There is a comfortable sug- 
gestion about the doubling chin, the perfect line of the 
protruding paunch — made so suave and so befitting by 
the artfulness of his tailor. A little pink pearl twinkles 
up above in the sweep of a black silk tie : and little feet 
twinkle down below, out of sight, in boots of honest 
leather polished with honest blacking. Burshall has given 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


up his diamond ring ; that was the exuberance of youth ; 
otherwise he is conservative. 

Oliver liked to see a man with a proper idea of his 
own value. 

They meet an old and valued friend of Burshall — or 
is it valuable? — a little unjust! Burshall has an affec- 
tion for old John Milnes. No man has for more years 
called him Bur. (All his friends call him Bur.) There 
will be tears in the dark eyes when he holds his second 
best topper in his black-gloved hand, and gazes down to 
where, by request, there are no flowers. They talk for 
a while to old John Milnes about the World’s cham- 
pionship, for they are great patrons of the ring. They 
wonder whether anything will really be decided by the 
big fight that is coming off next Monday night. Oliver 
fancies this new bruiser from Australia. He has seen 
him fight at Rushcutter’s Bay and likes the look of 
him. 

BurshalFs white teeth gleam at old Milnes’ older 
jokes: there is a miracle of deference in the way he 
touches the elder’s sleeve with his fat forefinger. After 
they have parted, he shakes his head a little sadly to think 
that the poor old boy is not as young as he was, and that 
he is getting to repeat himself. 

Next there is a boon companion of their own age — a 
dear old sport is the boon companion. 

‘^Not coming with us?” Burshall is mildly disgusted. 
‘'Must go and lunch with the wife? Frankly, old man, 
that’s a thing I will not have, and my missus knows it.” 

He is pleased to speak like this to an old sport: but 
not to Myerstein, to whom he nods with vigour and 
malevolence, nor yet to young Hooper, who buttonholes 
him at the next corner. Hooper has the audacity to ask 
them both to lunch. And Burshall’s nostrils quiver, his 

379 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


jolly lips grow almost thin, his eyes become very dark 
indeed. After all he is Somebody and his companion 
is an Attorney-General, if only of the Colonial brand. 
He is not likely to forget these things. He has built up 
a Business, he is getting on in years, he is pose Id. It is 
a piece of damned impertinence for young Hooper, who 
is only a boy, to offer hospitality. Hooper was at a 
third-rate school, is no sort of gentleman, is not doing 
very well. 

‘‘Blasted cheek,” says Burshall presently. “I very 
nearly told him so, but I didn’t want to- draw you into 
a row. Frankly, old man. I’ve got a temper.” 

It was not right that Burshall should be seen talking 
to young Hooper. 

Life, however, is not all luxurious luncheon and 
decorous promenading in Cornhill. He bustles back to 
work again much sooner than many men and he works 
hard. He has done himself proud, but he never allows 
his cocktails and expensive food to interfere with Busi- 
ness. Really, he is quite a serious man. And when 
he has completed his new deal with Oliver, he asks to be 
excused. They will meet at the Club later on. The 
day’s work is not yet done. 

But when the roll top desk is finally closed, he begins 
to enjoy the leisure hours before him in anticipation. 

He must get home to his wife and three girls, but 
immediately after dinner he will hurry round to his club, 
as he does four or five nights out of the seven, and there 
he will sit with dear-old-sport-Oliver and the rest, and 
they will talk very pleasantly about old times between 
rubbers, and decide what is and what is not good form 
and compare notes about women. He wonders how 
Oliver has taken to Bridge. There was no Bridge when 
last he cut a pack with Oliver. They will play high to- 
380 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


night. With any luck he ought to win something. Still, 
a canny man doesn’t take too much for granted. Some 
of these Colonial Johnnies know a thing or two. . . . 

Burshall’s attitude to Oliver had changed partly by 
time, partly by interest. Certainly it was said that he 
had swindled Gerald Faucet on a large scale, quite apart 
from Novo-tenax. But that was not official cheating. 
It was only private knowledge, and hearsay from people 
with an axe to grind. And if one went by that . . . 
And then it was many years ago, and now he was 
attorney-general. 

It was not until they had risen from the card table 
that Oliver Maitland had the opportunity he sought. 
Play had been extremely level and both Burshall and 
he remained amiable if unsatisfied. Their respective 
partners had left the club. Oliver sat in an armchair, 
desultorily turning the leaves of an illustrated paper. 
He asked for a fresh cigar. Burshall gave him one and 
took up his stand by the fire. They both drank deeply 
from large tumblers. 

‘*Do you ever see the Wedlaws now?” 

‘‘Whenever they’re in London. Henry, that’s to say,” 
Burshall amended. “His wife fights shy of me, I think. 
I shock her, I suppose.” 

Burshall felt a little uncomfortable. So far he had 
evaded the subject of the Wedlaws. He knew Henry’s 
view of Oliver and naturally did not wish to expound 
it. ' . 

“She usen’t to be shocked easily,” said Oliver. 
“What’s she like now? Devilish pretty girl once.” 

“Is now. Wears uncommon well. Got a strapping 
girl, you know — image of her mother.” 

“Look here, Burshall — man to man, what about my 
going down there to look ’em up?” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


"‘Oh — er — for the matter of that, theyVe in town — 
or were last week. Henry lunched with me on Wed- 
nesday.’’ 

‘"Well — what about it? I know Henry doesn’t love 
me. A little misunderstanding years ago. I never 
troubled to explain. One doesn’t expect old friends to 
require explanations. So there the matter rested. But 
it seems a pity.” 

""Yes,” said Burshall, “it does. Still — ” and he 

shrugged his shoulders. 

“I don’t care. I shall risk a rebuff. I would have 
looked them up the last time I was home. Only I think 
it was you said they were abroad. Where are they?” 

Burshall gave the name of the hotel. It was not for 
him to say any more. He had done all he could. It was 
better to leave the unpleasant subject. Maitland was 
capable of looking after himself : and after all when it 
came to the point, Henry’s bite was often less consider- 
able than his bark. 

“It’s wonderful how little some people do alter,” 
Maitland went on. “You haven’t at all except for a bit 
more embonpoint.” 

Burshall looked down and shook his head. 

“Well, well, as one gets on — I’m going to diet this 
winter. But it’s all very well for you to talk, you always 
were as thin as a rake.” 

Oliver Maitland stretched his neck. 

“And yet,” he said, continuing where he had left off, 
“I ran into a cousin of mine this morning and I didn’t 
know her — simply didn’t know her. I remembered her 
as a good looking girl and now she’s as ugly as sin ; but 
brains, you know, any amount of brains. She paints. 
Has something in the Academy regularly every year, I 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


know that’s not supposed to be much, but still there it 
is. Bit of a suffragette though.” 

“Well, frankly, old man,” Burshall answered, tilting 
his glass, “I only look at women from one point of 
view — except ladies, of course.” 

Later on that night Oliver conned over the past with 
ever increasing sentiment. Tp him there was no com- 
bination of events so poignant as the patching up of an 
old, lost friendship. He sneered at Henry, but for old 
times’ sake he would dearly love to spend one jolly 
evening with him. They would dine together leisurely 
and go to some show afterwards and compare to-day 
with twenty years ago. He had once said that the essen- 
tial drama of old association was contained for all time 
in the story of the Prodigal Son. So it was. He liked 
to think that he had returned home from the harlots 
and the husks : but Burshall was inadequate in the role 
of forgiving father. Oliver would have liked all his 
old friends gathered about him: either that or else the 
companionship of just one — a woman — Dolly. 

He remembered the letters which she had never an- 
swered. That had been mere childish fright. She hadn't 
wanted to commit herself. Nevertheless, she was for- 
given. It seemed such a wasted opportunity. If it 
hadn’t been for that infernal divorce case, there would 
have been the makings of a long and beautiful romance. 
She was the sort of woman to help a man on in the 
world, not that he needed much help. Yet now that 
he was getting old and grey. . . . The faint suggestion 
of moisture came to Oliver’s eyes. He sat by the fire 
in the empty smoking room of his hotel, and felt very 
forlorn. His recollection was not passionate, only a 
little sad. He remembered it all now. It was such a 
long time ago. ... A wave of magnanimity surged up 

383 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


in him. He felt very kindly towards both Dolly and 
Henry. He could do the latter a good turn, and he 
would. It was difficult and delicate, but he had never 
been a man to fear contingencies on such flimsy scores 
as these. 

He had implicit faith in his own nice sense of balance. 
He would shed light in a dark place and earn their 
dual gratitude. And then all would be forgiven and 
forgotten; and they would let him go back to his far 
distant colony with a certain regret. . . . And it was 
improbable that they would ever see him again. 


384 


CHAPTER VII 


E ver since her joyous discovery of Henry’s illogical 
conviction on the way from Gerald’s rooms, Dolly 
had some premonition of what was about to happen. 
She only hoped that she would have the opportunity 
of meeting the situation alone. If Henry were present 
she knew that no situation would arise. Oliver Mait- 
land would call and Henry would refuse to see him. 
And from Henry’s standpoint that would be quite right. 
But Dolly thought that she could do better. 

In the event Oliver rang up early one afternoon ask- 
ing for Mrs. Wedlaw. Henry had gone out upon some 
errand about which he had taken the trouble to be 
mysterious. He had seemed very nervous and had 
eaten an unusually small breakfast. She was herself 
just leaving the hotel when the messenger boy ran up. 
On hearing the name she went to the telephone with 
steady deliberation. She was glad this opportunity had 
come. 

“Yes?” she said. 

“Is that you — Dolly? I’m Oliver Maitland.” Despite 
the rasp of the instrument the voice soimded softly 
ingratiating. 

“Yes,” she said again. 

“I called yesterday. I was sorry to miss you: and 
like a fool I forgot my cards, may I come again?” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘By all means. We are leaving on Friday, but I am 
in this afternoon.’' 

She knew that Henry would be occupied elsewhere. 
Oliver said that he would come at half-past three, and 
said good-bye in a studiously quiet and intimate tone. 

Dolly smiled into the mouth of the telephone. Would 
he dare try and be intimate when he came, would he dare 
have the insolence? She hoped so. She hoped so very 
much. 

Any nervousness she felt when he arrived was per- 
fectly hidden. She sat looking at picture papers in a 
corner of the hotel drawing-room which could generally 
be reckoned on as being empty at that time of day. She 
had given orders that anybody calling was to be brought 
there. At five and twenty minutes past three it occurred 
to her to put the papers back on a table not too near at 
hand. Oliver Maitland was not to suppose that she was 
in any way fluttered. Interest in picture papers might 
give the impression of an attempted nonchalance. She 
would have no aids. She would rely on herself. 

And then the door opened and he came in. She 
noticed at once that his stoop had not been emphasized, 
though his hair was getting grey and his protruding 
teeth were a shade less white than they used to be. The 
round eyes looked rounder still, the lines about his 
mouth seemed to be permanently expressive of self- 
satisfaction. All his bad points had been developed by 
the parching from tropical suns. 

He came towards her eagerly. 

“How good of you to let me come,” he said, “and 
what years it is — years.” 

“That’s struck you, too, has it?” And as she shook 
hands with him, Dolly was pleased with the sound of 
her own voice. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Oliver knew that as a rule he could talk, and now 
immediately to be convicted of a platitude was discon- 
certing. But perhaps there was no malice in Dolly’s 
answer. It was difficult to tell, for her tone was purely 
negative. There was no hint of banter in it. 

‘‘And so you’re Attorney-General now. That was 
your ambition, wasn’t it? Henry’s out, I’m afraid.” 

Oliver could not help but look relieved. 

“Ah,” he said, “you don’t know what it means to 
be come home and find — that you are not entirely for- 
gotten.” 

“Of course. But I’m sure you’re not forgotten.” 

“Not by you, at all events, Dolly.” 

“No, I haven’t forgotten you.” And she contrived to 
say it almost exactly as though she had, but without 
the smallest hint of defiance. 

“How good of you to say that. You know as one 
gets older one gets very much taken up with the idea of 
auld lang syne. And we’re none of us any younger, 
are we ?” 

“Thank you, I suppose not.” This time Dolly con- 
veyed the conventional woman upon whose age reflection 
has been cast. She was very baffling. Was she a fool 
after all ? Oliver asked himself. 

“I should have liked to have seen Henry,” he went on. 
“I should have liked to have cleared up an old mis- 
understanding. You know, Dolly, as I get on, I see what 
a pity it is to allow things like that to come between 
old friends.” 

“Yes : Henry will be in later on, I think.” 

She enjoyed his quick evasion of the opportunity she 
had suggested. 

“But I wanted to tell you something. It’s old history 
now. And I always feel that I have done Henry an 

387 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


injustice in not speaking before. It’s a difficult thing 
to say.” 

‘‘Why say it then?” 

“Ah, you mustn't be hard on me. From the bottom 
of my heart I tell you that yours and Henry’s happi- 
ness means a great deal to me.” 

“I’m sure it does,” said Dolly kindly. “How good of 
you — so busy as you are with all your political work — 
to think of us.” 

“Now, look here, Dolly; we’re a man and woman of 
the world. We realise how things happen. And I want 
you to know that Henry, before you were married, was 
fully aware of the — position. He knew that there had 
been a muddle over that will — rather, that a second will 
had been found, indeed it was I who found it. I — 
wanted you to know that.” 

Hhis took Dolly completely by surprise, but she kept 
her expression of indifference, and sat easily back in 
her chair as before. For years she had taught herself 
to hide her heart. Oliver finished lamely, and even went 
to the length of repeating himself, thinking she could 
not have heard. Would nothing move her? 

“I wanted you to know that.” 

“Yes. Thanks very much. But as you say, it’s a 
long time ago and it doesn’t matter much, does it?” 

Dolly was very anxious for him to commit himself 
further though she scarcely thought he would dare. 

“I thought you’d be glad to know,” said Oliver, 
aggrieved. 

So he had the star-defying audacity to imply that 
Henry had been generous. 

“Why, exactly?” she asked. 

Oh, there it is. His daring fell short of direct 

388 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


statement, then. Dolly determined to embark on a course 
of more positive bluff. 

“Do you know,’^ she said quietly, “wills and money 
and all that sort of thing don’t seem very interesting. 
I know they are to many people. But really when it 
comes to the point there are so many things which are 
more important. Henry has money or I have, but being 
married, what difference does it make? Amongst so 
many folk there seems to be a sort of absurd etiquette 
about money. I don’t understand it. It seems rather 
vulgar.” 

“Ah, how wise you are. I am sure you are right.” 

However alert her senses were that afternoon, Dolly 
could not appreciate the full measure of Oliver’s morti- 
fication. She saw that he was disappointed and that was 
sufficient reward. She could not immediately envisage 
his sentimental scheming of the night before. 

Oliver was silent for a moment or two. Then, ac- 
cepting defeat with a bright smile, he enquired of the 
Faucets. 

“And your daughter! how is she? I was hearing 
about her yesterday.” 

“Oh, she’s all right — getting a big girl now.” 

“Almost incredible! Wonderful girls — the rising gen- 
eration.” 

“I suppose each generation thinks another wonderful 
in varying ways.” 

“Ah — old times! They had their moments, hadn’t 
they?” Oliver’s round eyes looked away as he said it. 

“Yes, but one should be careful about perspective in 
looking backward. It’s so easy to think that you see 
more than you actually do.” 

Would he remember? And was it a mistake to show 
that she recalled their last conversation? 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


He winced obviously. 

‘‘That is very hard.” 

“Oh, I like the glamour of youth — in that way — as 
well as most people. Only I think it important not to 
canonize one’s immature self. If one does that too 
much one gets so unctuous. One lives and leams^ — why 
not take the benefit of the learning and make no more 
bones about it?” 

Oliver rose. 

“I am afraid I must run away,” he said, rather more 
loudly than he had spoken yet. 

Dolly was delighted at his slight but ineffectual strug- 
gle for his self-esteem. 

“Good-bye.” 

He tried to hold her hand when she put it out to 
him, and looked intensely into her eyes. She returned 
his look with the perfection of social rigidity. Her ex- 
pression was completely empty. She did not frown or 
raise her eyebrows, but smiled slightly, and withdrew 
her hand from his without force or haste, quite as tliough 
she had not noticed the unnecessary pressure. 

Maitland looked confusedly for his hat, went to the 
door without it and came back again. Presently he got 
out with a further murmured good-bye, but without 
looking at her. When he was gone, Dolly sat quite still 
for several minutes. Then she went to her own room 
and lay on her bed and cried and cried for pure joy. 

She knew now how strongly tempted she had been to 
let this opportunity go. That would have been an easy 
and a timid course. Instead she had faced the situation 
boldly. By her considered action she had put the past 
definitely behind her, disinfected. All pain and fear 
had been scorched away by laughter. There was no 
more Oliver Maitland and there never would be. 

390 


CHAPTER VIIT 


T7 ROM the day on which Annie Saunders gave him the 
unwelcome news of his grandfather, Henry’s alarm 
on his own account — never until then definitely formu- 
lated — grew by slow degrees into a secret obsession. He 
began to worry himself about his general health, and 
allowed his imagination to riot and to fling him headlong 
into gloom from the starting point of some small ache 
or pain, some day of liverish malaise. Now and again 
he would come with some pitiful little tale to Dolly. 
Yet while he was giving the trifling details of his com- 
plaint he would be asliamed of himself and make light 
of that which had required considerable effort before 
he could bring himself to speak of it. Dolly naturally 
set it at naught, too. She never took him seriously, 
because he did not allow her to see that he took himself 
seriously. She would suggest some homely remedy, 
tell him that he would find certain pills in her medicine 
chest and would straightway forget about it. After a 
time, when his complaints became more frequent, she 
was pleased. In the early years he had never come to 
her like this. He was growing to need her. At the 
same time Henry would feel that Dolly was unsympa- 
thetic, that there was no occasion for her so readily 
to accept his half-hearted denials of the gravity of his 
symptoms. 


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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Of his more urgent fears, of the mental unwholesome- 
ness which he believed he had inherited, he as yet said 
nothing at all. 

For a long time he was repelled by the idea of seek- 
ing a doctor's advice. He was afraid of it. He dreaded 
what he might be told. Then one day, when he was in 
London, he met a man at his club, a surgeon called Mal- 
lette, he had known for years, a cheerful, boisterous 
fellow who put heart into you. It was easier to talk of 
your ills to a man like that. He rang him up that same 
evening and Mallett gave him an appointment for that 
afternoon on which Dolly disposed of Oliver Maitland. 
There was a day to wait, and now that he had made 
his decision that day passed slowly. He said nothing to 
Dolly, but she could not fail to notice his preoccupation. 
By the time the hour of the appointment drew near, 
Henry had worked himself into a condition of sheer 
pallid fear. The combination of small symptoms had 
become intensified lately. There was something very 
wrong indeed. There must be. Henry was a man who 
had seen very little of doctors; he had never been to 
consult one before, save in such wholesome and acci- 
dental events as a sprained leg or a broken finger. But 
to plunge into the doctor’s colony in its territory of 
permanent gloom was frightful. Henry could never 
regard a great surgeon as a customary human being. 
He could never imagine him as someone who enjoyed 
a day’s shooting or who was fussy about his clothes or 
who could sit in a punt and smoke a pipe and think how 
hot it was. Mallett, on the other hand, he had never 
thought of as a surgeon at all. He seldom talked shop, 
and was simply a usual member of the club — a man 
who liked toast and dripping for tea, and played an 
indifferent game of billiards. From time to time he 

392 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


had heard Mallett's name vaguely in connection with 
his profession; but he knew him, so to say, from the 
other side. 

. . . He thought the room in which he waited a most 
repulsive place; and yet it was difficult to say why. It 
was exceedingly comfortable: there was a bright fire, 
about which a good deal of brass glittered pleasantly. 
Mallett seemed to go in for brass. There were brass 
candlesticks and figures and tobacco boxes. In the hall 
there was a brass warming-pan — ^the man who took his 
hat had knocked it with his elbow. He agreed with 
Gerald about that. Why should warming-pans he re- 
garded as treasured ornaments? It was a new fashion, 
he supposed. 

What would Mallett look like in his consulting- 
room? 

He would put on a severe professional face, no 
doubt. . . . Really this room wasn’t half bad, so why 
should he dislike it so? There was a bit of furniture 
opposite that looked remarkably like a sideboard. It 
was a sideboard. Then this was the dining-room. This 
fact was ever so slightly reassuring. Then Mallett had 
a dining-room. He had lunched here no doubt some 
time ago. Yes, and somebody had dropped a crumb 
which had eluded the eye of the servant. It gave a 
sense of reality to the place. Presently another patient 
was ushered into the room, a woman this time, middle- 
aged and stout. She sat heavily in a chair by the table 
and opening her bag took out a small looking glass and 
began to examine herself. Henry quickly took up Punch. 
There was something almost indecent about being cooped 
up in the same room with this woman and her glass. 
It was like imprisonment in a stranger’s bedroom. 

What an awful time Mallett was. Henry, as was his 

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wont, had been punctual to the minute. Mallett must 
have some serious case. ... He tried to concentrate on 
the paper before him. Then the stout woman had a noisy 
attack of hiccups. She tried to suppress it by holding 
her breath and only made matters worse. Henry felt 
that it wasn’t right that he should be exposed to this sort 
of thing. 

He had just read the first half of a promising joke 
when the butler appeared. He looked at Henry in an 
encouraging way and intimated that Mr. Mallett would 
see him now. Henry had an urgent desire to finish his 
joke. It was tantalising, this sudden incursion upon his 
amusement. But of course he must put the paper down. 

When at last it came to the point, Mallett seemed 
far more deeply concerned about the drama than about 
Henry viewed as a scientific specimen. That was the 
way of him, and while he talked rapidly and well of this 
actor and of that, his vigilant eye ran over the physical 
Henry with preliminary shrewdness. The latter was 
surprised to find Mallett at work very like Mallett at the 
club. 

‘‘Now let’s have a look at you,” he said. 

Having looked, he began to talk of horses with far 
more genuine enthusiasm. Henry Wedlaw, he thought, 
was a good chap and could give a new hand excellent 
advice concerning the purchase of a saddle. But Henry 
Wedlaw as a case did not exist. Mallett wrote out a 
prescription and gave Dolly’s advice in professional 
phraseology. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said. “I 
wish I were as sound myself — do indeed. Of course 
we’re getting to an age when we mustn’t play the fool, 
but then we don’t. Yes. Quite all right. Oh, yes, I’d 
tell you. Goodbye.” 

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Then came the reaction. He walked jauntily into the 
hall, and said a word to the servant as he went out. 
A very nice looking man, thought Henry. That clerical 
type of face and the grey hair were most befitting a 
butler. And — he was all right. There was nothing to 
worry about. Mallett had said so; and Mallett was in 
the front rank. Henry took out a cigarette and tapped 
it quite merrily on the silver case. He still smoked 
cigarettes in the streets of London, just as he still wore 
a top hat — at all events for so ceremonial an occasion as 
a consultation with the doctor. One had to keep up 
the decencies. . . . 

He would go round to the club and tell people what 
a wonderful chap Mallett was. The afternoon was sunny 
and warm for late autumn. He would walk all the way. 
One grew into the habit of taking taxis everywhere and 
it ran up in the most astonishing manner. As he turned 
the corner into Wigmore Street he noticed a big shop win- 
dow with glass shelves spread with all kinds of curious 
implements, and there was an operating table with a 
multiplicity of ingenious hinges. Wonderful fellows, 
these surgeons. They could do anything with you pretty 
well ; though Henry for one was uncornmonly pleased to 
find that they didn’t propose to do anything with him. 
He stopped and looked quite callously at the sterilizers 
and the jars and the wicked little knives and delicate 
saws. He came out into Oxford Street and crossed 
over, dodging a motor bus with some recklessness. The 
world was a better place than it had been for some time; 
and unceasingly detestable though London was, yet 
there was a certain sense of satisfaction in walking down 
Bond Street on a fine afternoon. Gad, there were some 
pretty women about. Ah, the place for scent. Dolly 
didn’t care much about scent unless it was particularly 

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good. But Henry had an idea that she wouldn’t turn 
up her nose at what he would get. He went into the 
shop and gave a lavish order. He had seen to Kath- 
erine’s presumed wants a day or two ago. And Gerald ? 
A hare — a brace of pheasants? That was absurd. He 
could always send game from home and often did so. 
He had heard that there was some wonderful potted 
stuff that he could get just along here; the man was 
famous for it. He expected, that Gerald himself had 
told him in the past. But it was absurd to send potted 
meat to a man. And yet he would like to. Henry could 
not get it out of his head that Gerald had not enough 
to eat. At the same time it was a very difficult thing 
to do. By sending him things you threw his poverty 
into relief. Henry stood hesitating for a moment. Then 
he had a flash of inspiration. Burshall had been talking 
only the other day about some old brandy. He would 
get a little and send it to Gerald as a curiosity. He 
could say in a note, ^T’ve heard about this and I want 
to know what you think of it” — like that. It was more 
in the nature of asking an expert opinion than of giving 
a present. It would not take him far out of his way to 
go and order that and then — ^hanged if he wouldn’t 
follow Mallett’s example and have toast and dripping 
at the club — devilish good provender — and tea in a large 
cup. 

When at length he reached St. James’ Street, the 
wind had come up; and from the hill top tiers and tiers 
of billowing clouds, touched by the failing sunlight, 
slowly changed their vast formation. And far down 
beneath the mighty stretch of sky, low and sedate, the 
palace with the grimy splendour of its brickwork lay. 
And down the familiar slope with its uneven lines came 
Henry, seized with grandeur of it, this very shrine of 

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London. What was there about St. James' Street — nay 
— about all the London that he knew, for all its changing, 
details, for all its mechanical conditions, what was there 
which touched him so, quickened his senses and made 
his blood to run? 

He found that he had reached the steps of his club 
and there suddenly he stopped. Something which he 
had not forgotten while he was actually talking to Mallett 
had slipped his memory since. He had said nothing 
about his grandfather or of himself in that connection. 
Mallett had been so cheery, had made light of his bodily 
ills with such authoritative decision that he had felt 
ashamed of exposing his unhealthy fancies any further. 
He had saved them for the last after Mallett should 
have pronounced upon the lesser problem. Of course, 
brains — in that sense — ^were hardly within Mallett’s 
sphere of action, but he was so good a man he was bound 
to know all about it. But having happily disposed of one 
question Henry had not the heart to raise the other. 
And ever since his mind had been occupied. He turned 
quickly away from the club and calling a taxi, drove back 
to the hotel. 

On Henry's return home he half expected some res- 
pite from worry. Much healthy occupation in the open 
air held him back from himself during the day. But 
evenings were rather dull : he had long ago grown tired 
of beating Dolly at billiards, but he found himself 
strangely content with her companionship. Ever since 
their visit to London, she had seemed more sympathetic 
than usual, and in such good plight of mind, that for a 
time he was infected by her vivacity. But the mere 
sight of his old nurse hobbling up the village street was 
enough to remind him of the shadow; and every now 
and again he was overcome by a fit of despondency, 

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which no exhilaration of sport could cure. The weight 
of his trouble began to tell on him too in ways more 
definite. He found himself shooting badly: a difficult 
fence called forth from him a great effort of determina- 
tion. He began to think that other people would notice 
and would say that he had grown careful, and turned his 
irritation upon his horse, swore that his cartridges were 
bad, grew more and more to display this kind of emo- 
tion in public which hitherto he had studiously reserved 
for his own house. 

At the same time certain fads which in the early days 
had been affectionately noticed by Dolly, became accen- 
tuated until they were a source of annoyance. His 
passion for tidiness became almost superstitious: and 
privately he tormented himself with the strangest little 
ceremonials. Going to bed at night, having undone his 
tie, he would rip open his collar in hot haste. The 
underlying idea in his mind was that he might fall dead, 
suddenly, with the collar fastened, but without a tie — • 
like a gardener. He would be positively annoyed with 
himself if by chance one day he brushed his hair before 
he shaved, or if he put coppers into his waistcoat pocket 
instead of his trousers pocket. This sort of thing was 
the habit of years, but now he had grown to be aware 
of it. He was watching himself very carefully. He kept 
wondering if there was any obscure meaning in these 
performances. 

And then early in the next year came the first of the 
extraordinary letters from Michael. For once in a way 
he had spent the winter in England — at Bournemouth. 
He had stayed at Needs two years before, and then they 
had both observed his apparent aimlessness and depres- 
sion. Evelyn complained about the same thing whenever 
she saw either Dolly or Henry, or whenever she wrote to 

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them. It was a thousand pities, she kept repeating, that 
Michael had given up soldiering. She supposed that his 
health had made it imperative, but for years he had been 
doing nothing at all. At any rate, his whole time had 
been spent in chasing the sunshine which had brought 
him no enjoyment. Evelyn had begged him again and 
again to go to Bournemouth, because (though she did 
not tell him that) a friend of hers lived there who 
could call upon him and whose influence would undoubt- 
edly be beneficial. A new religion or a new Swedish 
exercise, Dolly had surmised. 

Then from Bournemouth Michael wrote to her, say- 
ing that he was sorry he could not come to stay with 
them as she had suggested, because he .had found the 
Man of God. He hinted vaguely that before long the 
world at large would be startled into acceptance of this 
prophet. He had saved lost souls and had been touched 
by fire from on high. 

Dolly handed the letter to Henry. 

‘‘What does it all mean?’^ she asked, “is he cracked?’’ 

Henry looked at her quickly, and took the letter in 
silence. He read it with tight lips, lifted his eyebrows, 
and refused to say anything. 

Not long afterwards, Michael again wrote; this time 
to Henry. He ignored all the personal questions that 
had been asked him, and discoursed at great length upon 
the new prophet. He seemed to have found an interest 
in life at last. But his expression of it was rambling 
and incoherent. Through Evelyn, who had been to see 
him at Bournemouth, they heard that Michael seemed 
to be in better health generally, but that he had been 
obsessed by perverse enthusiasms, which could do him 
no good. He devoted all his time to the new prophet 
with his new tabernacle. However, she did not take 

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it very seriously. Evelyn had always been a fool, Henry 
reflected. 

And at last he could endure his own silence no longer. 
He felt that he must give in and take Dolly into his confi- 
dence. 

It had been a wet and miserable day. A heavy cold 
added to his deep depression. After tea he went to find 
Dolly in her own room. 

‘^You know,’’ he began, ‘T’m very worried about 
Michael. I’m beginning to think this is serious.” 

"‘Poor old Michael. Yes: it worries me too. It isn’t 
the thing itself. I suppose people do get these ideas into 
their heads when they’ve nothing better to occupy them. 
It’s his way of writing about it. I think you ought to 
go and see him.” 

‘‘Yes, I ought. But do you know — well — ^I funk it. 
I have never said anything about it, but I discovered 
some time ago that my grandfather — mother’s father — 
was off his head before he died. Annie Saunders told 
me.” 

“Oh, Annie Saunders!” 

“Yes. But I asked Graham, and he had heard the 
same thing. Has Evelyn ever said anything to you 
about it? She’d be likely to know.” 

“No, she never has. Oh, Henry ” 

She got up from her chair and came to him as he 
stood there by the window and put her arm on his 
shoulder. 

“Don’t you worry yourself, old man. I know how 
its funny little mind works. Why didn’t you tell me 
about it before?” 

Henry looked down and patted her hand. 

“Didn’t want to worry you, dear. Of course, Graham 
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makes light of it. But then — Michael. It's an awful 
thing." 

‘‘Oh, I expect iPs a passing phase. Michael'll be all 
right. You see if he isn’t. Only he’s got so self-centred 
being so much alone.’’ 

Henry smiled rather ruefully and sat down. 

“I hope it is all right. I think I shall write and ask 
Clarey. He knows Michael better than anyone. But 
that sort of thing in a family ’’ 

“Nonsense. Henry, you’re not to keep things from 
me. What’s the good of a wife if you don’t confide in 
her?’’ 

She sat down on the arm of his chair and kissed his 
head. 


401 


CHAPTER IX 


W HEN Katherine came home for her holidays, it 
naturally followed as she grew older that she 
discerned much that her mother from constant propin- 
quity missed or had forgotten. 

‘‘Daddy is tiresome sometimes,” she said. “I asked 
him when Clenham was built, and he told me to get a 
gazeteer. Well, I didn’t really want to know and I 
knew it would take me ages and ages to find the gazeteer, 
so I said it didn’t matter, and then he was quite angry 
with me for being slack.” 

“If you didn’t want to know, why ask? — owl!” 

“But I had to talk about something. Daddy is so 
difficult to talk to — really. And in the end I had to 
waste half the morning looking for the beastly book. 
He said it was on the shelf in the billiard room. I said 
it was in his room. But he said— No, it wasn’t, and he 
wouldn’t even let me look round to make sure.” 

“And of course it was?” 

“Of course, and that only made him worse.” 

“Poor Daddy, that’s his way. All men get funny 
little tricks of some sort or another as they get older. 
You’ll find that, darling.” 

“That’s a very bad sort,” said Katherine. 

“That’s such a very little thing. You must learn to 
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have a sense of proportion. It’s only people of my age 
who ought to be annoyed by little things like that.” 

‘T was thinking of you,” said Katherine, daring. 

“Dreadful child!” 

She often thought about her mother and father — how 
they got on together, what they talked about when she 
wasn’t there. For years past it had seemed perfectly 
natural that she and her mother should form a kind of 
alliance. In more or less trivial matters they conspired 
against Henry. Katherine supposed that it was because 
of their sex. But no doubt of their mutual love ever 
crossed her mind. She was aware in a vague way that 
some husbands and wives did not care about each other; 
but her upbringing had taught her that these were un- 
happy, unsatisfactory people. And there was nothing 
unhappy about her mother. She was the most wonder- 
ful mother in the world. Everything about her must be 
perfect and ideal. She must love Daddy really and 
Daddy must love her. Only to Katherine there was about 
this love of theirs something dim and unsubstantial. But 
she believed in it nevertheless and took it for a matter of 
course. It was like some people’s religion, she thought, 
a thing you were taught, rather than impelled, to be- 
lieve. Katherine speedily grew old enough to find that 
occasional exasperation may walk hand in hand with 
permanent love. What troubled her was the fact, 
gradually obtruding itself, that her own childish affec- 
tions were becoming alienated; or was it that she had 
never loved Daddy, that as a child she had taken the 
love for granted, because the love of parents was sup- 
posed to be the inevitable accompaniment of all child- 
hood. But lately she had begun to realise that there was 
very little friendship between her and her father. They 
were strangers. Instinctively they both avoided any 

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intimacy in their talk, for Henry had never begun to be 
intimate, and Katherine was shy with him. But with 
her mother, Katherine was surprised to find her rela- 
tions changed more and more to love on equal terms 
from love with authority. They had got to be such 
good friendsi — ^her mother was such a girl still in some 
ways. She so enjoyed everything. She was so clever 
in her talk when they were alone together, and her old 
readiness and spontaneity returned. 

At the beginning of one summer holiday, instead of 
going home, Dolly came out to Brussels for her and 
they went for a joyous expedition together through 
Brittany. Henry had gone to join Michael in Spain, 
and Dolly and Katherine had a glorious month to them- 
selves. Dolly had wanted or feigned to want some friend 
of Katherine’s to keep her company — a school-fellow or 
Geraldine Faucet — someone to make a noise with, as 
she put it. But Katherine found her mother quite noisy 
enough. 

Dolly thoroughly understood the question of Dick, 
though she said little about it for fear that natural 
perversity should have its way and all her plans be 
spoilt. So she was sympathetic without being irksome. 

When Katherine left her school she was irritated to 
find that Henry refused to recognise her womanhood. 
Ridicule, even when it was ill-natured, she could put 
up with, but his whole relation with her resolved itself 
into a tyranny of petty correction. 

There was the question of the gladioli. Elsie Faucet 
and Dolly had been talking garden, and afterwards Henry 
warmly impugned the former’s pronunciation. 

"*She called it gladfolis, which is absurd,” he said. 

‘Tt’s gladiolus, of course,” said Katherine. 

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Henry laughed outright in triumph and genuine 
pleasure. 

‘‘Hark at her,” he said to Dolly. “Plucky lot they 
teach ’em at school. Now if you want to know, it’s 
gladiolus — the first syllable. Don’t you forget that, 
Katherine.” 

Henry seemed to like nothing better than to show his 
superior knowledge in matters of this kind. He became 
obsessed with side-issues. He loved to trick her with 
the spelling of “battalion” or “mnemonics.” 

And Katherine was an indifferent player of games, 
and as such was a constant source of exasperation to 
him. She loved to fool about with a tennis racquet and 
a ball, thoroughly enjoyed the exertion and would play 
quite happily and very badly all day long. She did 
not mind in the least if she won or not : the result of a 
game was immaterial to her. It was good fun while it 
lasted — that was all. In theory, Dolly shared this view : 
but when she had soundly trounced her daughter she 
was happy. She liked to think there was youth and 
agility in her yet. But Henry was very serious about 
games. He was a good man of his hands in many 
directions, and in the summer, cricket and tennis almost 
compensated him for the finer, richer pursuits of winter 
time. But he played to win. He enjoyed the game, but 
the joy was mitigated if he lost. Man for man he was 
quite certain of besting Dick Faucet for instance; but 
handicapped by Katherine for a partner against Dick 
with Dolly, he found his task hopeless. He would play 
desperately, doing all Katherine’s work, when he could, 
as well as his own; but they would be badly beaten. 
The girl’s light-hearted blundering always lost them 
game after game, and when tea was brought out to the 

405 


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cedar tree, Henry put down his racquet with the delib- 
eration of cold rage. 

One day when she was routing in the drawers of 
Dolly’s bureau, Katherine came upon an old sketch- 
book. It was half filled with little water-colour draw- 
ings of the house and neighbourhood. They did not 
seem to Katherine particularly good of their kind, but 
there was something sacred about their very elderliness, 
their very want of skill. Also they threw a fresh light 
upon her mother. 

“Mummie, did you really paint? You never told 
me.” 

'‘Oh, darling, shut it up and put it away. They’re 
such rubbish.” 

"They’re not exactly pro., but I love them. I can 
see how you went for it. You never did niggle, Mum- 
mie. This is Greedy, isn’t it? I think I can just remem- 
ber her.” 

Greedy was the black spaniel, beloved of her mistress, 
beaten by her master on account of certain pullets, and 
dead since Katherine’s earliest childhood. 

She had been kneeling by the bureau and now sat 
back upon her heels, looking up at her mother with the 
sketch-book upon her lap. 

"Mummie, darling, you must have done these years 
ago. Why don’t you ever paint now?” 

Dolly looked at her from the sofa. 

"Oh, I don’t know. I never was any use at it. 
Daddy used to say I couldn’t draw. I never got any 
encouragement, my dear, and so I stopped, which was 
idiotic of me, but just as well really.” 

Privately she decided that the sketch-book must be 
burnt, at the first opportunity. She had herself come 
across it earlier in the year, and had called to mind the 
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last occasion on which she had worked in it. Owing 
to that touch upon her memory she had been able to 
confound Oliver Maitland when they met in London. 

“Said you couldn’t draw? How like Daddy. Daddy 
is so stupid about Geraldine too. I hardly dare mention 
her name.” 

Geraldine Faucet was the object of Henry’s most en- 
venomed disdain. Of course she was a young lady, 
and — he had no doubt — a good girl, and on these counts 
alone a fit companion for Katherine. But she was 
much too opinionated for him, much too modem, the 
most flagrant instance in her family of her parents’ 
folly. They made no effort to knock the nonsense out 
of her. 

One day about this time, Katherine, who had spent 
the morning at Clenham, came home late for lunch and 
in a great state of excitement. 

“Look what Geraldine’s given me,” she said, tearing 
brown paper from a drawing supported by a piece of 
cardboard. 

“Oh, lovely,” Dolly exclaimed, putting down her 
knife and fork and examining the picture. “She is a 
clever girl. She’s got him exactly.” 

“Yes, and she’s going to illustrate a book — one of 
those Christmas books with all kinds of ridiculous peo- 
ple and beasts in it. She’s shown me one of the 
sketches.” 

“Let’s have a look,” said Henry grimly. 

There was real annoyance in his face as he held the 
drawing in front of him and stared at it. 

“Who is it intended to be?” Though well he 
knew. 

“Mr. Norwood. Oh, Daddy, it’s awfully like.” 

“But why dressed like a woman?” 


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‘‘She says that’s the essential Norwood.” 

“What a mass of conceit and affectation the girl is — 
essential grandmother !” 

“Daddy, she’s not affected. She’s as natural as she 
can be.” 

“Yes, Henry,” Dolly could not resist to say, “she is 
really. It’s her very naturalness which makes you say 
she’s affected. She hasn’t got all the tepid restraints 
and graces which your ordinary young woman has.” 

“Certainly not the graces, anyhow, and Katherine, 
you’re not to speak of Mr. Norwood like that. I heard 
you talking of Major Clarey yesterday — Clarey — just 
like that. It’s extremely ill-bred. This young woman, 
has no idea of drawing at all,” Henry went on, still 
frowning at the picture. 

“She doesn’t pretend to draw ordinarily,” said Kath- 
erine. 

“How can you say that? — it’s awfully good.” In 
matters of this kind Dolly always took a firm stand by 
Katherine’s side. “Geraldine has learnt to dodge her 
limitations or rather to make them serve her turn. She 
can’t draw right, so she draws monstrously wrong and 
the result is at least violent and not mediocre.” 

“There you carry me,” said Henry, “into a sphere of 
activity in which I confess myself quite lost. But judg- 
ing this — ^thing by the ordinary standards of the ordi- 
nary person, I say that it’s rubbish.” 

In such ways, small as the several occurrences might 
be, Katherine found that Daddy was not only stupid, 
but extremely unkind. She regarded Geraldine with a 
whole-hearted admiration. She was immensely proud 
of her. She was really hurt by this intolerance. It 
never entered Henry’s mind that by the constant exercise 
of his contempt for her friend he was giving expression 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


to a more serious antagonism. He was allowing Kath- 
erine to grow up without making the slightest efYort to 
understand her outlook. And this very negligence prob- 
ably sprang from his conviction that girls had no business 
with outlooks. They should be the pale reflection of 
their parents. To blossom out as a precocious illustrator 
of books was dangerous. That sort of thing had never 
happened in his own family. 

The Wedlaws had never been artistic, thank God. 
Katherine showed no unwholesome symptoms of the 
kind, certainly, but she seemed to make a great fuss 
about it in others. She would have to learn to grow 
out of it; and Henry meant to help her. 

But the enthusiasms of Katherine did not seriously 
disturb him. He thought very little about her. He 
was glad she was pretty — as he put it to himself ; and 
there for the present he left it. There were other things 
to think about. 


409 


CHAPTER X 


T> ICK FAUCET had a comfortable disposition which 
did not accuse itself of being misunderstood. He 
laughed at his mother and loved her: he laughed with 
his father and loved him equally. He thought there 
was no place like Clenham in the world : he liked his 
profession: he enjoyed ever)q;hing. And this was the 
most momentous home-coming he was ever likely to 
know. It was summer and Katherine was at home. 
Katherine's letters had been short lately and had evaded 
the point. But that had troubled Dick very little. She 
was grown up now. She had come out at the Hunt 
Ball last winter, which function to his disgust he had 
been forced to miss. It simply remained to talk definitely 
to his own folk, where beforehand things had been al- 
lowed to slide and to escape official notice. He knew 
perfectly well that everybody would be delighted. They 
all loved Katherine at Clenham. She was one of them. 
And her mother was a darling. Old Wedlaw was a bit 
cantankerous, an annoying sort of man and difficult to 
deal with sometimes, but Dick felt that even he liked 
him. 

Elsie and Graham had often patted each other on the 
shoulder at the sight of Katherine and Dick together: 
Elsie and Dolly had exchanged quick glances and in 
private had discussed the alliance. It had seemed to 
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them delightfully natural — a thing ordained from the 
beginning. Dick in love, said Elsie, was the most 
beautiful thing she had ever seen, and she told Dolly 
of his reverential attitude. Katherine was his goddess, 
but he meant to marry her for all that. 

And when he thought that he was not fit to wipe her 
shoes, he also expected that she might put up with him, 
nevertheless. They had grown up together, had quar- 
relled too much in the long past to feel very uncertain 
now. Their increasing separation during the last few 
years had been inevitable, but they had not grown out of 
close touch. With the normal and necessary change in 
their attitude to one another had come no misgiving about 
the old ground-work of their intimacy. 

In his own room on the night of his arrival Dick sur- 
veyed the prospect with unmitigated joy. He had sat 
late talking to his father and mother, and latterly Ger- 
aldine had come in her dressing-gown to smoke a cigar- 
ette with him and gossip lazily for half an hour or so. 
Now he was alone and the night must be got through 
somehow. It seemed to him a most irritating break in 
a happy procession of events. And then in the sunlight 
he would ride over to Needs. He had sent a note that 
evening to Dolly. 

Dick walked about the room, shedding garments as 
he went, and stopping now and again to examine some 
old beloved possession. There was not and never had 
been the smallest pretence of good taste in his room. 
It was a comfortable museum of old association. Every 
period of Dick’s life was represented there. There was 
a much bound cricket bat, a discarded fishing rod or two, 
covered in dusty brown canvas ; innumerable photographs 
of boys and men, some framed groups, including one 

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of fierce looking youths some of whom wore boxing 
gloves, himself in the middle. 

There were many books, and even a few toys thrust 
away on a high shelf. He took up a little carved Indian 
box and unscrewed the lid. There were still some strands 
of tobacco in it. They had been there for fifteen years, 
and reminded him of the first pipe he had smoked in the 
boat-house by the lake one afternoon. 

He recalled the fact that every time he had gone 
away from home since his first year at Oxford, he had 
given orders for the clearing away of certain rubbish. 
He had taken a good deal of trouble about it. On the 
eve of all departures he had filled some old box or 
clothes basket with miscellaneous photographs, papers, 
gloves, neckties. In such manner had he put away child- 
ish things. On each succeeding return they had been 
invariably replaced with the utmost care. Dick looked 
now and laughed at the well pipe-clayed but worn-out 
cricket boots he had bought at Winchester, at the long 
line of old menu cards with college arms upon them, 
covered with scrawled signatures, which overlapped each 
other upon the mantelshelf. How glad he was that some 
higher and further-seeing intelligence — ^his mother^s 
probably — had ordained their resuscitation. Before long 
he hoped he would be a married man — he must make 
a vigorous return to childhood. If he had a son these 
would be priceless heirlooms. 

He looked at the packing-case he had brought home 
from Athens. It was all he could do to resist unpacking 
it to-night. He was eager for the morning when he 
would bring out his treasures: some exquisite pottery, 
dug from the dry bed of Lake Kopais, a string of big 
mother-o’ -pearl beads with a green silk tassel, an em- 
broidered peasant’s dress for Katherine, a complete na- 
412 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


tive costume for his own use : and some weapons. They 
would appear at fancy dress balls together. There were 
presents for everybody. Uncle Gerald especially would 
appreciate his cylix. 

The wicker chair from which he had risen when 
Geraldine left him creaked loudly as it ever did. He 
got into bed and found that they had given him three 
blankets. Coming from a warm climate he would be 
supposed to feel the chill of England in July. He threw 
off one of them and before putting out his candle took a 
long affectionate look round the room: then a longer 
loving look at a photograph in a leather case which he 
put under his pillow. Lastly he lay for a few minutes 
listening to the owls hooting, and looking straight from 
his bed through the window to the starlit sky, in the di- 
rection of Needs. 

After dinner that night Dolly drew Henry aside to his 
own room. 

‘‘Here’s a note from Dick,” he said. “He only arrived 
to-day. He says he wants to come over to-morrow.” 

There was a kind of excited questioning in her voice. 

“Well, I shall be very glad,” said Henry aggressively. 

“Don’t you think it would be a good plan if we both 
contrived to be out?” 

“Oh, that’s it, is it? I’ve not much patience with 
that kind of thing. I thought last year it was high time 
this affair stopped.” 

“Why should it stop — why?” 

“We don’t see eye to eye about a good many things, 
Dolly, but I thought — I really thought you shared my 
feelings in this. In the first place it’s only a boy and 
girl business, and I’m not going to have Graham think- 
ing we’re after young Dick at all costs.” 


413 


‘'My dear, as if Graham would ? Don’t you know him 
better than that after all these years. \^y on earth 
should we be after Dick, as you call it?” 

"He’s not heir to an old baronetcy, is he? — ^to say 
nothing of Clenham, and considerable property besides ?” 

"I am quite sure neither Graham nor Elsie think any 
more of that than — well, than Katherine does. How can 
you imagine things?” 

"Because I’ve got some knowledge of the world. Ap- 
pears to me Katherine knows which side her bread’s 
buttered,” and he laughed shortly. 

"How can you — ^how can you?” Dolly felt the hot 
blood surging in her head, her eyes blazed, she felt as 
she had so often felt — faint with passionate resentment. 
But for once in a way Henry revised his judgment. 

"Oh, well,” he said, "I’m only joking. I don’t really 
accuse the child of having a head on her shoulders. 
That’s why I say it’s a boy and girl affair. If you’re 
so bent on pulling it off, much better wait until Master 
Dick has done something.” 

Dolly swallowed her anger in order to smooth the way 
for Katherine. Wrath, however righteous, was waste 
of time, and it was her business now to see that Kath- 
erine’s interests were properly considered. 

"How much better that she should help him to do 
something. She’s the sort of girl who would, too. As 
for Dick, he’s five-and-twenty — quite old enough to know 
his own mind.” 

"Well, then — you’ll take the responsibility.” 

Throughout the conversation Henry had seemed to be 
in a fairly good temper. It had often happened so when 
he said the cruellest things. He gave a sarcastic chuckle 
now and again, which suggested his complete indiffer- 
ence to the question. As a matter of fact, he would have 
'414 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


been heartily glad for Katherine to marry Dick Faucet, 
for those very reasons which were, he supposed, so care- 
fully borne in mind by others. But he distrusted their 
youth. There was, in his mind, something rather dis- 
graceful about a formal engagement which was subse- 
quently broken. The curt announcement in the paper 
was full of shame. . . . However, perhaps if Katherine 
played her cards properly she would pull it off. 

'"Have it your own way,” he said to Dolly. ‘T’ve no 
fault to find with the boy, except that he is a boy — ab- 
surdly young for his age. Gad, it’s rare enough in these 
days, too.” 

‘‘Everybody says that, Henry. I don’t suppose for a 
moment it’s any rarer now than it was in your time. 
But you were always about sixty. I sincerely hope 
they’ll both be children for many years to come.” 

‘T dare say a little responsibility will make him shake 
down.” 

When Dick rode over in the morning, he found Kath- 
erine waiting for him in the garden. No one else was 
at home. They had the place openly and avowedly to 
themselves. 

“All the men are out,” said Katherine as Dick dis- 
mounted, “making hay.” 

“That’s what we’ll do then. I’ll just take the mare 
round to the stables. You come.” 

Henry prided himself on his stables, which had been 
partially rebuilt and wholly refitted when he came to 
Needs. That was one of the things he had enjoyed do- 
ing properly, as he would say. There was nothing 
extravagant or unnecessary, only thoroughly good. He 
took horses seriously. 

The little yard was golden in the sim, save where the 
angle of the coach-house and a low wall gave morning 

415! 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


shade to the big kennel, whence several dogs clamoured 
to be free. A bucket by the stable door was full of 
glistening water, where green lights and blue played 
and shifted. There was an interchange of whinnies as 
Dick led in his mare and backed her into an empty stall. 
Katherine put up her hand to stroke her nose, while Dick 
fastened the pillar-reins. The hot sunshine, the smell 
of the stable, the animals, combined in an atmosphere 
which was entirely wholesome. They both felt the es- 
sential fineness of the moment. They were thankful for 
their loneliness. It was very still now: the dogs had 
quieted down. Dick looked at the girl in her old muslin 
dress. They had scarcely spoken yet. She was intent 
upon patting his mare, stroking her neck, looking into 
her deep, steady eyes. 

^‘Katherine.’’ 

“Yes,’' she met his eyes and breathed heavily. 

“Come out into the sun. Do — isn’t it nice and warm? 
We’re all alone here — Katherine — you darling.” 

They were standing side by side and Dick turned sud- 
denly round and with his hands on her shoulders, kissed 
her. 

Presently they scrambled into a moss grown corner 
of the yard wall, hidden from the drive by beech trees 
on the top of a low bank. In their childhood it had been 
their great and perilous climb. Dick used to kneel down 
for Katherine to tread upon his shoulder, and the great 
excitement came when they found it was possible to 
get into one of the beech trees from the wall and back 
again. Here they sat now. 

“I’ve so often thought this couldn’t happen,” said the 
girl after a time — “like we used to say — ^because it’s gone 
on for so long when we were babes.” 

“You’re sure now?” 

416 


THE COMPLETE G E N T L E M A N 


“I always have been. But I didn’t know about you.” 

‘‘Then you’ll have to know a lot more about me. But 
isn’t it lovely: we’ve practically spent all our lives to- 
gether, and now we’ll go on and on. ... I say, here’s 
your mother coming back, I believe. There — over that 
branch beyond the corner of the house.” 

“Yes, it is. Oh, I do hope daddy won’t come back just 
yet. Let’s jump out on mother and dance round her.” 

“Let’s. She’s such a dear. I always loved your 
mother. But your father — will he throw me out?” 

“No, he probably won’t take any notice. Oh, Dick, 
don’t let’s jump out on mother. Let’s stop here a bit 
longer.” 

“Yes, it wasn’t my idea. Katherine — can we be mar- 
ried soon? There’s no point in waiting.” 

“Soon — my Dick.” 

*‘Will you mind coming to the ends of the earth with 
me? Oh, I do look forward to your seeing Athens. 
People call it a tuppenny little hole apart from an- 
tiquities, but — I don’t know — it gets hold of you. We’ll 
have a house — I’ve got my eye on one — just at the back 
of the palace. And there’ll be a little sort of balcony 
place with steps down to the garden, where we can sit 
after dinner — and orange trees. The scent of the orange 
blossoms on a warm night! And it’s just the place for 
you — somehow — ^just the right background.” 

Katherine turned upon him suddenly and fiercely 
kissed him. 

There followed now a time of peace and contentment. 
Dolly and Elsie Faucet already discussed the prospect of 
grandchildren. Katherine, always a favourite of Gra- 
ham, found herself much petted and taken completely 
into his confidence. 


417 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


'‘You’ll run this place one of these days, we’ll hope,” 
he said to her, "always supposing these Radicals leave 
anything to run it with. You may as well get to know 
a few things.” 

And he would take her round the place, and show her 
improvements that he had made and tell her the cost and 
the cost of things which Dick would have to do when his 
turn came. 

"We’ve been here a good time, now, my dear, and I 
should like to feel sure that Dick and his children would 
have the place. But I sometimes wonder. Things are 
vastly different now to when I was a boy. M’ old father 
always used to say — ^vastly, Katherine. They don’t 
make ’em like that now.” 

If that had been said by Henry, Katherine would have 
at least wanted to retort that they never did — ^make ’em 
like that now. But with Graham this lingering in the 
past seemed natural and fitting. He was so generous to 
the trend of the times, and so practical as well, so com- 
pletely free from self-complacence in his position, that 
she could not but see eye to eye with him. 

"Things are not the same as they used to be,” Gra- 
ham added, looking wise. "People see things differently 
now. The loudest shouter gets listened to. It’s an age 
of transition.” 

"I do wish it would hurry up and transish,” said 
Katherine. "We want to do things in such a hurry in 
this country. We want to be butterflies without the 
trouble of being chrysalises.” 

"Ha-ha. That’s good, that is. Good for you, my 
dear. Only you know the process is reversed. Our 
butterfly time is over, to my way of thinking, and sooner 
or later we shall be — caterpillars ? no maggots, swarming 
maggots. Old croaker, aren’t I? Ah, well — come and 
418 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


I’ll show you some raspberries that are raspberries.” 

He was so ready to take her as a member of the 
family. Why couldn’t Daddy do that with Dick, instead 
of treating him like a schoolboy whom he knew little 
and cared for less? She loved Graham for his quick 
acknowledgment of her. There was nothing purely 
social in their intercourse. And she liked to hear his 
small, half -humorous grumblings. 

“What’s the use of having a good pair of boots?” he 
would say. “They’ve gone and dried ’em by, a fire again.” 

And he would worry aloud about cows and horses or 
dogs or railway shares or the glimpse of the drive 
caught from the morning-room window, which showed 
that Reuben, the gardener, had again been negligent of 
one persistent weed and a diminutive patch of moss. Or 
he would tell Katherine what he had, hidden away, for 
his wife’s birthday. “Come along into my room and 
look at it and see if you like it. And don’t you split 
on me, you little hussy.” 

So it was to be an ideal marriage. They were both 
young and wholesome. They loved each other simply 
and naturally without the shadow of a thought outside 
their two selves. Dolly, loathing the intrusion into mar- 
riage of what she believed to be irrelevant, was happy 
in the knowledge that no social question, nor commercial, 
could arise, save in the ill-nourished imagination of 
Henry. She looked to Katherine to realize the visions 
she had once conjured on her own account. 

Once the engagement was published Henry’s attitude 
changed. He made good-natured fun of Katherine, not 
because he thought there was anything inherently amus- 
ing about the mere fact of an engagement to marry, 
but because it seemed a customary thing to do. His 
attitude to Dick was exactly the same though without 

'419 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the slightest growth of intimacy. He had known the 
boy from his earliest youth. In those days when he went 
to Clenham to shoot — “Well, master Dick,” he would 
cry, — ^“bringing a gun out ?” or “Made your century yet, 
Mr. Shrewsbury?” Later on, when Dick was beaten in 
the Public Schools Boxing Competitions, he would still 
bring his simple badinage into line with the moment. 
“We can’t all win, can we, Fitzsimmons?” And Dick 
would grin and quite fail to realise how bored he was 
with this old joke. 

It was the subject of boxing which provided the most 
striking occasion of his negligent attitude to Dick after 
the betrothal. They were all in the garden at Needs one 
day, when Henry asked some question about a fight that 
was to take place at Olympia. 

“Burshall — you’ve heard me speak of him? — he’s lay- 
ing on the soldier. But it is a tricky thing to bet about.” 

“I really don’t know much about it, I’m afraid,” Dick 
answered. “Fve lost touch with boxing since I went 
abroad. Ought to be a very good show, though.” 

“Ah,” said Dolly, “you’re a bruiser — that’s splendid. 
You bash people alx)ut. If Katherine misbehaves herself 
I’ll send for you and you can give her what for.” 

“Brilliant idea!” cried Dick in thoughtless jubilation. 
“Grand I I’ll take you to see this fight, Katherine. 
You’ve never seen one, have you? You’ll love it.” 

“I should indeed.” 

She was cautious enough to restrain her excited ac- 
ceptance of Dick’s inspiration, for she well knew what 
would happen. 

Henry was careful not to include Dick in his furious 
glance. He leaned towards Katherine and spoke in a 
low voice. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, 
420 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


''so long as you live under this roof you’ll behave your- 
self like a lady.” 

The girl returned his gaze with more anger than shame. 
Dick lifted his eyebrows and glanced from one to the 
other. 

‘T am perfectly aware that a certain class of women 
do go to prize-fights,” Henry added. 

Shortly afterwards he got up, saying that he must 
write letters, and went into the house. 

“You idiot!” Dolly said to Dick. 

He laughed with pleasure at the implied commendation 
of his schemes: for, knowing Dolly, it amounted to 
that. 

“What on earth do you want to blurt out all your 
brilliant ideas for? I shall catch it.” 

“Put it down to my youth,” said Dick, as Dolly moved 
away, and then — “Oh, I love your mother, Katherine.” 

In the house Henry at once began to tackle Dolly. 

“If that’s the sort he is, it’s a pity we didn’t know 
more about him in the first instance.” 

“Then why didn’t you say it to him instead of attack- 
ing Katherine?” 

“He’s nothing to do with me.” 

“But in Heaven’s name, why shouldn’t the child enjoy 
herself as she likes? There’s no harm in it and it isn’t 
as if she’d be the only woman there.” 

Henry turned irritably in his chair. 

“I sometimes think you positively like vulgarity,” he 
said. “And you’ve brought Katherine up on those lines. 
My daughter, as long as she remains here, will behave 
like a young lady.” 

“Well, we won’t quarrel about it,” said Dolly quietly, 
“but you must bear in mind that it was once extremely 
unladylike to eat cheese : I think I’m right in saying that 

421 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


it was vulgar to fold up your napkin after meals. Oh, 
Lord, can’t you see the difference between what is low 
and was is unfashionable? The applied knowledge of 
what’s the thing doesn’t distinguish the lady, but merely 
brands the sheep.” 

“Stick to the point. Would you go and see a fight 
yourself ?” 

“I ? What has that got to do with it? No, I certainly 
would not. Two nasty men with hairy chests, smashing 
each other to bits. I should think it would be a perfectly 
beastly sight, but Katherine doesn’t — ^at present any- 
how — so let her alone. Yes. I have tried to teach 
Katherine what’s what and not what’s the thing. Girls 
get quite enough of that at these hateful schools. But 
she is a thoroughly vulgar girl — ^like her mother. Look 
at her!” 

“I won’t have it.” 

“I don’t suppose you’ll have any need to.” 

Dolly’s teaching, as she described it, of what was what 
had been concentrated during the last few months. And 
for Katherine one result of it had been an almost pathetic 
self-immolation on the altar of reality. 

“Oh, Dick,” she said once. “I am a cad. Do you 
remember when I fished out that book of photographs, 
and showed you that one of my grandfather? Well, I 
did it on purpose for that — so that I could say — ^‘That 
was when he was equerry.’ ” 

“Why not?” 

“Oh, can’t you see? — I was ashamed of myself while 
I was doing it and yet I couldn’t resist it. It was 
because you were somebody, though I knew perfectly 
well all the time you didn’t care tuppence what I was, 
that I wanted you to know we weren’t sort of absolutely 
brand new.” 

422 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘'But, darling, I never thought about it, and of course 
you’re not.” 

‘T know. But it was a mean sort of snobbery. I 
wanted you to admire me for something I couldn’t 
help. I cared that you should know.” 

"Oh, you silly old girl, why shouldn’t you?” 

• "But I shouldn’t. I dare say my confessing it to you 
is wasted, but I do so want to knock that sort of thing 
out of me. I suppose I get it — well — from daddy. I 
want you to know ever5rthing about me, Dick darling, 
everything of that sort I mean. And then you can give 
me a rap if you hear me being a snob again.” 

Dick was sympathetic less because of his immediate 
comprehension of Katherine’s point than because for 
some years past his Uncle Gerald, superfluously enough, 
had dinned a like doctrine into his own ears. His own 
upbringing had been perfectly usual, but his mind had 
always been endowed with sufficient resilience to with- 
stand the onslaught of that which was fashionably ac- 
cepted. That is to say, though generally himself popular 
he had, without thinking about it, instinctively sought 
and foimd what he liked in people of the most diverse 
temperament and class. 

For instance, his attitude to Aggett, the old keeper 
at Clenham, was without the smallest taint of patronage. 
He admired him for his knowledge of the woods, he 
respected his loyalty, but he loved him as an old friend 
with whom he had shared many a joke. And now though 
he was sincerely glad that there were no financial or 
other rocks to be smoothed over in his wooing of Kath- 
erine, he loved her as he always had, thoughtlessly, for 
herself. 

They were all very happy. 


423 


CHAPTER XI 


T? VELYN had made herself responsible for her 
brother Michael. Neither Dolly nor Henry was of 
any use, she decided, both being immersed in their own 
affairs. So from time to time she felt justified in 
neglecting the school for a day or two, and in motoring 
over to Bournemouth. 

Evelyn very seldom came to Needs now. The wedge 
of indifference had been driven in deeper and deeper 
between her and Henry, and she did not at all approve 
of the way in which Katherine had been brought up. 
She had never thought Katherine a suitable companion 
for her own children, apart from the difference in their 
age. And Evelyn had no sentimental regard for the ties 
of relationship. Poor Henry had been quite ruined by 
his unfortunate marriage, she would reiterate to her 
partner. Miss Baker: for Dolly had proved herself a 
soulless worldling with no thought outside her clothes 
and her stable. 

‘‘And the girl is the same. No doubt from one point 
of view it is just as well that she should marry a rich 
man’s heir, and I trust for her sake that he is steady. 
Brains he has none, so dear John says. He was up at 
Oxford with him for a time. But John played hockey, 
and naturally saw little or nothing of that hunting set.” 

Evelyn took it for granted that Henry would neglect 
424 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Michael, and when Henry found that he was relieved of 
the responsibility he was content to leave it at that. He 
put his trust in Evelyn’s vigour and conscientiousness, 
but he did not forget Michael. He worried for the most 
part in silence. Dolly had Katherine and Dick to think 
about. 

The time came, late in the summer, when Evelyn wrote 
to say that she was seriously alarmed about Michael; 
that she thought a change of air under the roof of peo- 
ple who knew and understood him, might do him good 
and help him to shake off the depression which more 
and more closely enveloped him. She herself could not 
ask him to the school: his nerves would never stand 
the incessant noise, and she would be unable to give him 
much attention. Would dear Dolly look upon the task 
of entertaining him for a week or two in the light of 
a sacred duty? 

“So like Evelyn to imagine that I shouldn’t want 
to have him,” Dolly said. “When have we been given 
the chance? He wouldn’t come before.” 

“Evelyn’s getting sick of it, I suppose. Sacred duty 
be damned. Of course we’ll have old Michael and try 
to cheer him up. But ” 

Henry’s pleased indignation with his sister gave way 
before his own fear. He stopped, and Dolly could see 
the animation die out of his face, giving way to a tight- 
lipped gloom. 

“We will cheer him up. Don’t you worry, old man. 
What a pity it is Major Clarey isn’t home yet: It 
would have been jolly for them to meet. But Michael 
will be all right.” 

Dolly could never invent anything more convincing 
than this to say, for she did not believe it. She too had 
heard from friends at Bournemouth who had called on 

425 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Michael : though of this she had never spoken to Henry. 

Evelyn had been extremely bitter about MichaePs new 
religious enthusiasms on their own account. It appeared 
that Michael, far from finding comfort in the society of 
her highly cultivated and progressive friends, had fallen 
into the hands of a quack who had seceded from the 
Wesleyan Ministry to embark in a theology of his own. 
There had been great difficulty in persuading him to 
leave Bournemouth at all. Considerable pressure had 
evidently been brought to bear upon him. The new 
religion was exigent. 

‘‘That's what worries me so,” said Henry. “It's not 
like Michael. He never used to trouble about that sort 
of thing at all. He used to go to church now and then 
like other people. Of course, he was always a bit down 
on the R.C.'s: but that's only natural.” 

“You know what it means, don't you?” said Dolly, 
hoping to keep Henry's attention to a side issue. “It's 
simple enough. Michael's subscriptions have been de^ 
fleeted. Evelyn and her friends, with their minds hover- 
ing about Higher Thought Centres and the laxative 
value of proteid soup, have been disappointed. Poor 
old Michael might have been a very profitable recruit.” 

“I can't stand Evelyn and her fads.” 

“My dear, if she had belonged to the previous genera- 
tion she would have annotated books from the library 
and crossed out all the damns and devils. It's only a 
question of period. It’s rather amusing, though. So 
long as her children were in the schoolroom she was a 
keen Churchwoman, quite steadfast and safe. Latterly, 
however, she has grown restless. She is bored by such 
a placid system. She has been casting about for some- 
thing more purely intellectual, as she would say. I be- 
lieve she has gone in for at least half a dozen of the 
426 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


new persuasions, though for the sake of expediency and 
the school she has never definitely separated herself from 
the Church.” 

‘‘No, that sort of thing would hardly go down with 
the parents of those precious brats. But what Michael’s 
doing isn’t healthy. It’s bad enough that he should be 
bled by a charlatan in that way, but where is it going 
to end? Dolly — ^that last letter of his wasn’t sane.” 

‘T know — it was queer. But then, when people sud- 
denly turn round — get religion, it’s called — it takes them 
in a very curious way. The whole idea overwhelms them 
and they want to be entirely different all in a minute. 
Once they have worked up their emotions to a certain 
pitch, they must give in to them. But I expect it’s only 
temporary. He’ll settle down after a bit. The great 
thing is to keep him quiet here. I’ve no doubt this dis- 
gusting scoundrel is working on his feelings and keeping 
him on the strain to fill his own pockets. We must 
take care of him for a bit.” 

Henry said nothing and turned away. Dolly knew 
that he could not trust himself to speak. 

A short visit from Gerald served in a measure to keep 
their minds from the prospect for a few days. But 
Henry’s attitude to one of his oldest friends, with its 
restraint, and his scrupulous avoidance of all personal- 
ities, succeeded in making even Gerald shy, and he felt 
out of tune. With Henry he could only talk about Dick 
and Katherine, who had gone with the Clenham party to 
Scotland. Alone with Dolly he grumbled most of the 
time, and vilified established institutions. Amongst 
others, Mr. Norwood, the Vicar of Utchester, came 
under his lash. 

“An odious, little, smug, prosperous busy-body. I 
can’t bear the man — I infinitely preferred old Moye.” 

427 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘"Why?” Dolly was nettled by his scorn, for she liked 
Norwood. 

‘‘Because he's a clever toad : because he juggles with 
words^ — ^because he's so damned up-to-date. You’ll find 
it out for yourself one day. I hate these jabberers, 
Dolly." 

“Well, I like that !" More than once in the last few 
years Dolly had been a little impatient of Gerald. 

“All right," he said laughing, “round on me, do." 

“Yes, I do. You were a parson yourself once. I sup- 
pose you still are in name. Why couldn’t you go on? 
You’d have been extremely unorthodox, and you'd al- 
ways be having rows with people, but it would have been 
— ^Oh, you know what I mean," she shrugged her shoul- 
ders, “or you might have written another book.” 

Gerald looked at her and laughed. 

They were walking up the steep side of the valley 
behind the farm, and had stopped at a point where wire 
netting divided the arable land from a wilderness of 
bracken and brambles in the midst of which rose an 
ochre-coloured mound, honeycombed with rabbit holes. 
There was a scampering of furry bodies towards this 
mound as they came in sight. 

“The rabbit," said Gerald, “is a shy beast who bolts 
to his hole and wishes you to believe that he stays there 
and sleeps. When you're not looking he does things. 
I’m a rabbit, Dolly." 

“How do you mean?” 

“Perhaps I’m not a rabbit: perhaps I'm an egregious 
ass. I’ll tell you all about it. Yes: now I come to 
think of it. I've been an ass. I was ashamed to tell you 
people, or anyone. I say — don't go and carry the tale 
to Henry, will you? I'm a good worker.'^ 

“Gerald — what on earth do you mean?" 

428 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘‘You may well ask. The fact is, I mess about in 
slums — on my own hook, you know. And not slums 
only. I used to conduct a sort of mission to impover- 
ished poets. But I can’t afford that now, and poets are 
no longer impoverished.” 

“My dear — I should never have dreamed ” 

“I didn’t mean you to.” 

“But why this absurd silence? I think it’s perfectly 
splendid. You might have let me at least know.” , 

“I tell you I was frightened of being misunderstood. 
I couldn’t stand being a parson and I struck out a line 
of my own. Conceit, you know: inability to stand dis- 
cipline.” 

“What was it really — I’ve always longed to know.” 

“Well — just that I was keen on people whom the 
parsons didn’t like : the people who weren’t amenable to 
churches and chapels and parish rooms. I don’t for one 
moment say that all parsons are alike or that I didn’t 
happen to strike a very bad lot. But you see what I 
mean. They wanted everyone to wear the club colours, 
so to speak. And there are so many people — particularly 
unhappy people — who won’t do that. Why should they ? 
Misery sometimes makes tremendously staunch individu- 
alists. It’s no good trying to teach them esprit de corps, 
because they don’t want a corps, or a club, or a church, 
or a guild. Their attitude is a non-party attitude. They 
feel that nothing matters but them and God, and that 
any league that seeks to interpret God is simply a con- 
spiracy of interference.” 

“But I thought that the idea of God was incomprehen- 
sible to most of them, and if it wasn’t they blasphemed 
it.” 

“Of course — ^that’s just the point. It is incomprehen- 
sible. But the more primitive a man is the more in- 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


stinctively he feels God. He does not know that it is 
God that he feels. He canT put his glimmering intuition 
into words : he can’t shape his thoughts. He doesn’t even 
think definitely. He is just vaguely aware of force and 
mystery — it’s hard to say what I mean. And then some- 
body comes with a bun in one hand and a rule of life 
in the other and gets him to join a particular band. Poor 
chap, he is frequently irritated, because he feels that the 
issues have been confused : or perhaps he doesn’t feel it 
and the issues just are confused. I don’t want to be un- 
just, but the league, under whatever name it passes, seems 
to be so much more important than the God to whom it 
is supposed to be dedicated. It’s putting everything into 
squares, it’s man making God in his own image. To 
take quite a small point, I look to a state of civilization, 
or whatever you like to call it, when the discussion of 
what it is and what it is not right to do on Sunday 
will simply be irrelevant. The Pharisee comes to an un- 
happy man and patronises him consciously and openly. 
He calls him brother but he doesn’t mean it. The Social- 
ist hits him in the back and calls him brother, but he 
patronises him just the same, only less openly and per- 
haps unconsciously. The atheist talks science or politics. 
The Salvationist Captain really does feel a brother some- 
times, but then his hell-fire propaganda hasn’t a very 
permanent effect even on external morals ; also it’s com- 
mercial.” 

‘‘And what do you do?” 

Gerald turned his head shyly. “Oh, just try and be 
friends, you know. You see. I’m not sure that this per- 
petual cry for unity of action and corporate bodies and 
so on answers. It may with some. I don’t know. I 
deal with rather lonely folk. It may soimd queer, but I’m 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


a tremendous believer in religion, but not a conscious 
religion. I shall never make you understand.’’ 

'T think I do understand,” said Dolly. ‘^But the league 
idea does act with many, many people, Gerald. You 
can’t deny that.” 

‘Tt does with some,” he admitted. ‘‘But I have looked 
for the others.” 

“And this explains your retreats?” 

“Yes, whenever I was specially busy, I’d go and take 
up my abode in the thick of it. I’ve got a morbid 
love of squalor somewhere in me.” 

“But the return to civilization is refreshing?” 

“Oh, of course.” 

“Gerald, you must tell me all about it some time, will 
you? Bother — here we are home now. And you will 
take me to see your slums ?” 

“No,” said he decisively, “that I will not do. I don’t 
want to interest anybody in my scheme. But I thought 
it was silly not to tell you. Thank you for not laugh- 
ing.” 

“How can you be such an idiot? They’re carrying 
tea out. Come and sit here. The older one gets the 
faster one sticks to bed-rock. And it seems you’re 
like that. It’s in the blood.” 

“Graham, do you mean? I should rather think so. 
Ah, now I’ll tell you. I’ve often pretended to despise 
Graham in the past — I’ve been a mass of affectation, 
Dolly — but I never have despised him.” 

“Does Graham know about you?” 

“Yes, the cunning old badger. He found out some- 
how. Oh, Graham’s lovely. Look at him. He’s a first- 
rate farmer. He’s a gorgeous politician — to hear the 
dear old boy pulverizing the Radical hecklers at a meet- 
ing is fine — ^he’s so quietly pleased with himself, and he’s 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


a splendid fox-hunter and all-round sportsman and he 
goes to church almost every Sunday.’’ 

“But my dear Gerald ” 

“Exactly. That’s all the Graham that everybody sees 
and admires, and it’s good enough as far as it goes, but 
it isn’t the essential Graham.” 

“I was going to say.” 

“The essential Graham is the man who loves his wife 
and his children tremendously, and who has an immense 
feeling of responsibility which he’s big enough to cope 
with. He’s never pleased with himself about them. He’s 
never satisfied that he’s done all he can for them. He’s 
never tired of inventing something fresh for them. And 
he enjoys everything so. He likes his dinner — in 
Heaven’s name why shouldn’t he? And have you ever 
noticed him drink beer when he’s thirsty? You should. 
There’s something absolutely noble about it. The Hu- 
manitarians shudder at the Graham type — I suppose be- 
cause it’s so thoroughly human. They despise his 
enjoyment of food and drink, and they call him a 
narrow-minded country bumpkin — Oh, my God! Talk 
of bed-rock!” 

“It sounds a funny thing to say, but I suppose it is 
because he is — just good. Oh, he is good, Gerald.” 

“Dolly, I tell you I’m prouder of Graham than of any- 
thing else in the world. And he’s the happiest man I 
know, and the best. Doesn’t that sound terrible for us 
who were young in eighteen-ninety, and are not old yet ? 
Graham is good. Norwood isn’t good. And Graham 
drinks more beer in a day than Norwood in a year. I 
wonder if that’s why?” 


432 


CHAPTER XII 


G erald returned to London the next day and shortly 
afterwards Michael arrived. When he first came 
into the house, the intense gloom of his presence was 
the more noticeable, because in his general appearance he 
had aged very little. He was grey-headed, but his face 
was drawn — less like that of a middle-aged man than 
that of a young man who had been ill. He had never 
been particularly careful about clothes, but now he was 
apparelled like an old-fashioned schoolmaster in depress- 
ing fuscous. The corners of his mouth drooped; he 
shook hands with a weak, listless grip. He looked pale 
and ill. 

During the first evening he said very little. In the 
drawing-room after dinner he could not keep still for a 
moment, but moved up and down before the empty fire- 
place, now and again asking some trivial question about 
a little Dresden group or a framed silhouette. Dolly sat 
on the sofa facing him, trying to make conversation. She 
caught Henry’s eye looking at her in misery. He had 
an evening paper, and from time to time read out a 
paragraph in the hope that his brother might be inter- 
ested, that he might be inveigled into ordinary conversa- 
tion. But Michael paid no heed at all. The faltering 
promenade of the hearthrug grew unbearable. Dolly could 
not keep her eyes from the hesitating feet which always 

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stopped short of the fringes at the ends of the rug. 
Sooner or later, she said to herself, he would step over 
them, and — then? Michael’s terrified anxiety to keep 
Upon the rug communicated itself to Dolly. She be- 
gan to dread the moment when he should outstep the 
limits he had set himself. Then she noticed that at 
regular intervals he would stop and jerk back his head 
towards the mantelshelf, gazing hard for a moment at 
some ornament there. He would not smoke, he would 
drink nothing; he would not play billiards. Once he 
sat down quietly for a few minutes opposite to Henry, 
apparently trying to concentrate his attention upon the 
meagre news from the paper. Dolly longed to get up 
and go away, but Henry’s appealing eyes held her by 
him. She felt closer to him that night than she had ever 
been. He was depending upon her. The fact of her 
sitting there was an immeasurable consolation to him. 
She must stay. 

And then the silent promenading began all over again ; 
again they watched the careful feet, the quick glances at 
the mantel. For his part Henry would not go. He 
dared not leave Dolly alone with Michael. 

"'Do you gather the school’s going strong?” Henry 
asked, speaking of Evelyn. 

"Tt’s the wrong principle — quite wrong. Children all 
packed together under one roof — ^the idea is terrible.” 

'T know,” said Dolly, “it does seem absurd trying to 
teach forty or fifty tot^y different minds by one rule of 
thumb, but things being as they are no one seems to be 
able to devise anything better.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Michael, and was silent 
again. But for an instant he looked malevolently at her. 

Then Dolly was really frightened. In the old normal 
days Evelyn had been the great joke. 

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At last Michael said that he was tired and would go to 
bed. In the flood of relief that followed Henry was quite 
voluble. He hurried into the hall and lit a candle and 
led the way upstairs, talking all the time, begging his 
brother to be sure and tell him if he wanted for anything, 
explaining the window- fastening in his bedroom, asking 
him if he would like any particular book to read. To all 
this Michael answered gravely in monosyllables. He 
took the candlestick from Henry at his door and quietly 
bade him good night. The next moment the key turned 
slowly in the lock. 

Henry went downstairs again and sat silently with 
Dolly on the sofa, holding her hand. 

In the morning Michael was a little less gloomy and 
talked more. He willingly came up to the farm with 
Dolly and Henry. Overnight they had discussed the 
question of sending for the doctor, but remembered that 
Michael had seen him during his last visit. They dared 
not risk the consequences. Instead Dolly wrote to the 
doctor asking his advice and suggesting that he should 
arrange with some stranger to take his place. Evelyn 
had said nothing about doctors, but that no doubt was due 
to her intermittent interest in Christian Science. 

The brightness of the morning, however, and of the 
improvement in Michael led Dolly to hope that her 
direst fears of the previous night had been groundless. 
She had been so fond of Michael in the past ; she hoped 
now to recapture some of the old companionship with 
him by appealing to his memory. 

In the evening, after tea, she made him come for a 
stroll with her, pointing out the plants of which she was 
particularly proud, leading him through a belt of trees 
beyond the garden, towards a gate, which opened on the 
lane to the valley. 


'435 


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‘Tt was almost impassable for mud last winter/' she 
said. ‘'You remember — it leads into the main road to 
Utchester/' 

Michael turned quickly. 

‘T am afraid," he said, ‘T must contradict you. It 
does nothing of the sort. It leads straight to hell." 

His voice rose at the last word and he stared at her 
with wild intensity. 

Exerting all her resolution, Dolly answered him 
gravely and steadily. 

“Are you sure ? Isn’t that rather — drastic ? It would 
be terrible " 

“It is terrible. You don’t believe me: I can see that. 
You don’t take me seriously. You think that Fm off my 
head." 

“What nonsense, Michael. There’s Henry calling.” 

“You’re afraid, you’re afraid of hell, and so am I." 
And then his face relaxed and he laughed shortly. “But 
don’t be afraid of me, Dolly." 

He kept silence all the way home, and all the way 
Dolly fought down her frantic impulse to run. She was 
white and trembling when she came into Henry’s room 
where he was dressing for dinner. And yet even at the 
last moment she controlled herself. She must not let 
Henry see how genuinely frightened she had been. 

“No answer yet from Spear?" she asked, when she 
had told him what had happened by the gate. 

“No. They’re worked off their heads in Utchester 
just now with this measles. I didn’t expect to hear till 
the morning. Dolly — " he stood looking at her with 
despair in his eyes, trying to hide it by an irritable 
tone — “Dolly, you see now. I was right. He’s mad — 
he’s really mad. He may be dangerous. Someone must 
take a telegram up to Clenham — ^too late for to-night 

436 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


now — to go first thing in the morning. You — you see 
what it means, don't you?” 

*‘Oh, Henry, don’t worry.” 

‘‘Worry!” 

He turned away and viciously pulled on his coat. 

Michael was late for dinner. He ate next to nothing 
and he hardly spoke at all. He kept running his fingers 
through his hair. Towards the end of the meal Dolly 
once asked him if he had a headache. 

“Yes,” he said, “I don’t feel very well. I think I’ll 
go to bed, if you will forgive me.” And without wait- 
ing for another word he rose from the table and left 
the room. 

Henry went after him. 

“I say, old chap,” he said, “would you like me to come 
up presently and sit with you a bit and then if you want 
anything ” 

“Thanks, I’d be much obliged.” 

And Michael began to mount the stairs, pulling on the 
bannister rail as though he were intolerably weary. 

“I’ll sit up with him to-night,” Henry said to Dolly, 
when he returned to the dining-room a moment later, 
“I don’t think he ought to be left.” 

“Of course, the doctor may be able to send someone 
to-night. I wish now we’d asked Spear to come him- 
self. He might have been able to and might not find 
anyone else.” 

“He won’t come now. There was nothing urgent in 
the note.” 

He made some pretence of finishing his dinner, 
glancing with apparent carelessness towards the servants, 
really wondering how much they knew and what they 
had inferred. Dolly tried to talk about Katherine, but 
Henry paid her no heed ; though she knew from his face 

437 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


that he was listening intently. Michael’s room was over- 
head. They could hear his slow foot-falls. 

Afterwards in the hall, Henry smoked halfway 
through his cigar, let it go out and threw it away. 

"T think I’d better go up to him now,” he said. ‘Tf 
he goes to sleep I’ll come down.” 

How quickly, Dolly thought, one became accustomed 
to a terrible fact which had sprung into being from a 
mere possibility. She had never dreamed that they 
would have to cope with anything more serious than 
common depression. Michael was — queer. Her friends 
at Bournemouth had been quite plain about that. But — 
the way he looked at her this evening — that, more even 
than what he had said, showed her what might well be 
expected. Was it safe for Henry to be with him alone ? 
Williams, the butler, was of no use. She would have 
Forrest, the coachman, to sleep in the house. She would 
say nothing to Henry, but send out for the man at once : 
his cottage was a mile or so away. He had been with 
them for ten years; a big, broad-shouldered fellow, of 
jovial appearance, no fool, absolutely to be relied upon. 
It might not be necessary, but she would feel happier 
with him there. She would speak to him as soon as 
he came in. She rang the bell and told Williams what 
to do. 

And Henry’s fears? Poor old boy, he was so fussy 
about himself. She remembered the little aches and 
pains which the London doctor had so casually disposed 
of. Henry was perfectly sound and sane. The story of 
his grandfather was sure to have been grossly exag- 
gerated. There could be nothing hereditary about 
Michael’s case, and yet — and yet, there was the least 
little doubt in her mind. By very suggestion, by the 

438 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


intensity of his thought, his fear, he might— who knew? 
— induce the thing he dreaded. 

She sat still for some time, making a vague pattern 
on the table with her Patience cards. 

In an hour or so, she heard a door open softly and 
softly close above, and Henry tip-toed downstairs. 

“It's all right," he said, ‘‘he's gone to sleep. Lord, 

I do want a smoke." 

He filled a pipe and began to draw deeply at it with 
nervous satisfaction. 

“I wouldn't go back to his room," said Dolly, “un- 
less you hear him move, that's to say. He may sleep 
right through." 

“Let's hope he will. Poor old Michael. He used to be 
such a hard-headed chap — ^who'd have thought? ^you 
see, it's only comparatively lately I knew about my 
grandfather. Mother was all right. I'll swear she 

was." , 

“Oh, my dear, try not to think of it like that. It s 
his health. He's been ill, off and on, ever since we were 
married, when he came back from India. It s more than 
twenty years. The strain on him must have been fright- 
ful. There's nothing so depressing as constant ill- 
health; he was lonely and must have got horribly self- 
centred, poor old chap. You know it was so." 

“It's not the slightest good saying things like that, 
Dolly. It's hereditary — it must be. I suppose you think 
so too — only of course you won't admit it." 

“I don't— I don't," Dolly cried. 

“You go to bed. You mustn't wait up. I can see 

you're tired." 

“I'll sit with you for a bit." 

She would listen to no persuasion. She knew that 
he wanted her. 


439 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


They sat there in the hall, silent for the most part, 
Henry smoking furiously pipe after pipe, Dolly with her 
cards — now beginning one game, a few minutes later 
rejecting it for another. Not a sound came from up- 
stairs. Once Henry went up and listened at Michael’s 
door. 

‘T suppose he’s asleep still,” he said to Dolly, as he 
came down again. 'T can’t hear his breathing.” He 
looked hard at her. “Do you think I’d better go in 
and see if he’s all right?” 

His thought was unmistakable. Dolly put out her 
hand towards him. 

“No, he’ll be all right. He’ll sleep through the night 
now, very likely.” 

“I don’t like — listen!” 

They were both standing halfway up the stairs. A 
muttering voice came to them from Michael’s room. 

“I’ll go back,” said Henry. “Go to bed, there’s a 
good girl.” 

“I’ll come in there and sit with you.” 

“No — no ; on no account, I won’t have it.” 

“You’ll call me if you want me?” 

“Yes.” 

Henry went quietly into the bedroom. By the shaded 
candlelight he saw that Michael was sitting up. He went 
over to the table where the candle was, and the book 
that he had been trying to read. 

“Lie down again, old man, and go to sleep. You’ll 
be much better in the morning if you do.” 

Michael groaned and continued for a while sitting 
up, staring before him. 

He repeated what he had said. Michael groaned 
again terribly and lay down. Henry looked towards 
440 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


him, but he could not see if his eyes were closed. He 
was quite still. 

For a little while Henry forced his attention to the 
book he held. It was an account of travels in a part of 
South America that he knew, and when he began it a 
day or two ago, he had enjoyed himself immensely. The 
book was full of lies; the fellow did not in the least 
know what he was writing about ; he had probably never 
been nearer to La Guayra than the reading-room at the 
British Museum. And the glibness, the assurance of it 
— Henry had laughed with quiet pleasure. There were 
an hundred pages more of balderdash to read, each one 
no doubt bristling with mistakes. But — ^there was no 
pleasure in it now, not even in tearing it to bits. He 
put the book down and listened. 

The stair creaked opposite the door and a soft foot- 
fall sounded along the passage. That was Dolly. Then 
there were whisperings, and then the clatter of cans 
from the bathroom. The housemaid was taking the hot 
water to the various rooms. She was infernally noisy 
about it. Had Dolly told her not to bring it in to 
MichaeFs room? She would come and knock loudly on 
the door and wake him up again. Henry waited. He 
heard the girl take the water cans to Dolly’s room 
and his own, and patter back again. Perhaps, after 
all, she wasn’t such a fool. The door leading to 
the servants’ quarters closed quietly. There were no 
other sounds within the house. 

He looked towards Michael again and as he did so 
he turned over in bed with a groan of such unutterable 
melancholy as made Henry grip the arms of his chair. 
Would he never go to sleep? Had he been to sleep? 
Wouldn’t he speak — say something rational? Silence 
in the room again; and Henry listened to the rising 

441 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


wind. It rained too. He could hear the water dripping 
somewhere. Then came a sharp tap at the window. 
He gave a little start. It was only a little hard rose-bud : 
he had heard it before and in the morning he would 
cut it off. Tap — again. It was a small aggravation of 
an already trying time. . . . 

Michael was still quiet. Henry took up his book 
again. He wished he could smoke, but it might annoy 
Michael. And the window was closed. Michael, who 
used to swear by the fresh air, had insisted when he went 
to bed. 

How was the time going ? It ought to be about one — 
half-past — ^he had not noticed the clocks striking. He 
looked at his watch and saw that it was just past mid- 
night. For an hour only he had sat there this last 
time. 

He looked towards the bed again and started to see 
that Michael was sitting straight up and staring at him. 
He had never made a sound. 

‘Xie down again, Michael, you really must.” 

“Where is Katherine?” asked Michael, ignoring him. 

“Oh, Katherine’s all right. She’s in Scotland. I told 
you.” 

“I’m very glad. Oh, I’m very glad. I was afraid I 
might hurt her,” and then he covered his face with his 
hands and rocked to and fro. Words came from him 
like sobs. 

“Oh, Lord, let me not hurt the child. God, don’t let 
me kill her. God, dear God, don’t let me hurt little 
Katherine.” 

“Michael, lie down,” Henry spoke steadily, though 
his face was working. “Lie down, I tell you. You can’t 
hurt Katherine; she’s in Scotland.” 

Michael continued to stare in front of him. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


'‘I might kill Dolly and you. Oh, God, I might. 
Harry, Harry, don’t let me. You won’t let me, will 
you? I might not be able to help it. I’m afraid. I’m 
afraid I might do it because I can’t help it.” 

He was calling him Harry, a thing he had not done 
since they were little boys. 

And then suddenly he had thrown off the clothes and 
was out of bed. 

Henry rose and went towards him. 

“You are not to get up. Do you hear, Michael? 
You’re ill. You’ll catch your death of cold. Get back.” 

“I can’t lie down. I must get up. I want to come 
downstairs,” and he began to dress himself hurriedly. 

Henry thought it best not to oppose him. 

“Tell you what it is. You’ve had practically nothing 
to eat to-day. We’ll go down presently and get some- 
thing. And some hot tea, eh?” and he tried to say it 
in a jolly, inviting way. 

The very mention of food and drink restored Henry’s 
own spirits a little. Dolly had said that she would have 
something put in the hall. For some unaccountable 
reason the idea of tea appealed to Henry very strongly 
at the moment. He was cold and thirsty too. They 
would soon boil a kettle on the spirit stove and perhaps 
Michael would be better for it too. 

Michael dressed himself completely and went towards 
the door, without speaking or looking at Henry, who 
took up the candle and followed him. They went down 
to the hall where the lamp was still burning. As he 
crossed the passage to the top of the stairs, Henry saw 
the light from the half opened door of Dolly’s room, 
and her head with her hair down silhouetted against 
it. He wanted to go to her and tell her not to sit up, 
but he dared not leave his brother for a moment. 


443 


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Downstairs Michael began to pace up and down, 
whilst Henry busied himself with the kettle and teapot. 
It was not for some minutes that it came to him that 
Michael now observed the same care in his promenading 
that he had exercised the previous night. He was watch- 
ing his feet and walking within the narrow border of 
the carpet. Henry drew an armchair to the table. 

‘^Come and sit down, there’s a good chap, and eat a 
sandwich. There’s cake too; you used to love cake.” 

‘'No, thank you. I can’t eat anything. Ah!” 

Once more he moaned heavily and in the next instant 
he had thrown himself on his knees and with uplifted 
hands and in a loud voice began to pray. 

Henry looked at him for a moment, the cup half 
raised to his lips. The horrible incongruity of their 
several actions did not strike him at first. He sipped 
his tea eagerly and looked away, and Michael called 
in a strangled voice upon his God to keep him from 
killing his brother. 

After a while he rose and sat down near Henry. But 
he would not eat or drink. The wind shrieked in the 
chimney and about the house. There was a little win- 
dow across which the curtain had not been drawn. 
Henry stared at it and saw a small cluster of ivy leaves 
that came and went and came again, tossed to and fro. 
The pale inner sides of the leaves as they were pressed 
against the pane looked like dim faces peering in, and 
the rustle that they made might have been some obscene 
chattering. . . . He went across the room and drew 
the curtain. As he did so, Michael rose behind him and 
began to pace the room again. And Henry knew that 
all the time he was being watched. Furtive eyes would 
shoot a quick glance at him over a half turned shoulder 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


and then down again to see that hesitating feet did not 
outstep their limit. 

And this was madness, real stark madness. This was 
what he would come to one day, sooner or later. But 
that prospect did not remain long in Henry's mind now, 
for all his faculties were acutely exercised in the press- 
ing needs of the moment. At any time, so he reckoned 
it, Michael might lose the last vestiges of self-control 
and spring upon him. He knew that he was in physical 
danger. He must exert all his will, all his powers of 
invention to keep him pacified. He must humour him. 
It was horrible, and the horror was growing, not miti- 
gated by the wild night and the gale that was blowing 
now. Nevertheless Henry was aware of some exhilara- 
tion. Bodily peril he had not experienced for many 
years. He was afraid, but he would not lose his head. 
Everything depended upon that. He sat down near the 
fireplace within reach of the heavy poker. That was 
the only weapon to his hand. He did not so much con- 
template his own use of it, as determine against his 
brother’s. 

And Michael walked up and down — it seemed for 
hours — groaning as though with dire pain, now and 
then uttering some fierce and terrible prayer. Henry 
drank another cup of tea and ate a little, afterwards 
lighting his pipe. Occasionally he spoke, but seldom 
got any answer. 

The clock on the landing struck a half hour, and 
the wind was like the voices of ten thousand madmen. 
And yet he could hear the slow creaking of Michael’s 
shoes and knew when suddenly it stopped. He glanced 
to the left. He could not see Michael. He had left his 
strip of carpet. He must be coming up behind him. It 
seemed cowardly to look round ; and it was hard to do. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


He turned his head a little way and there upon the floor 
were Michael’s shoes. He had kicked them off. Henry 
sat forward in his chair and turned right round. And 
there he was standing behind, seeming to tower over 
him, his wild eyes glaring. 

^‘What are you doing?” Henry forced himself to ask. 
‘‘Much better sit down.” 

“Oh, oh — I wouldn’t hurt you, Harry, I wouldn’t. 
Don’t you be afraid, my boy, I wouldn’t hurt you.” He 
laughed quietly and moved away. 

“But my soul is lost and God will not hear. It’s lost — 
lost.” 

He would stand for long minutes at a time, staring 
in front of him, with now and again a quick look at 
Henry, ineffably sly. Henry sat still, watching him. 
He could not smoke now, and he was cold. The wind 
howled and its passage through the trees drew forth 
malignant sighings. The house was very lonely — he had 
never thought of that before. They were all alone 
amongst the trees, with the wind. . . . 

There were quiet but resolute footsteps in the outer 
hall, and the door opened. Henry rose, wild conjectures 
tumbling about each other in his mind — Dolly — ^the 
doctor . . . Forrest came into the room. He was wear- 
ing an overcoat with the collar turned up and his grey 
hair was ruffled. His unshaven face looked curiously 
purple and dissipated. Henry had often suspected him 
of drinking on the quiet, and this was the thought that 
occurred to him first now. Then came relief. There 
was a certain jauntiness about the big coachman even in 
undress, which changed the atmosphere of the room. 
In a vigorous and old-fashioned way he touched his fore- 
lock to each of them. 

“I heard as the captain were unwell, sir,” he said 
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THE COMPLETE G E N T L E M A N 


briskly, “and I took the liberty of coming to see if 
I could do anything like. Pm sleeping in the house to- 
night, sir, missus’s orders,” he added in an undertone. 

“Fm very glad to see you, Forrest. Sit down here. 
You’ve only just come in then?” 

Michael had moved away to the end of the room. It 
was possible to talk without obviously whispering. 

“No, sir, I were in the kitchen. Missus came down 
just now, and told me Fd better come to you. She 
wouldn’t let me before. Afraid I should upset the 
captain.” 

“How did she know?” 

“There now, sir, I suppose I didn’t ought to have 
said. You see, sir, missus was there at the head of the 
stairs all the time listening. She’d have come herself, 
but she thought it was better not.” 

Just then Michael turned rather sharply in his stride 
and stared at them. 

“What do you want?” he asked Forrest. 

“Well, sir, there’s a mare we was anxious about has 
just foaled and I came to tell the master.” 

“I am ill. And no one can help me. No one can 
help a man who has lost his soul.” 

“Ah, sir, don’t say that.” 

“Lost, I tell you. Forrest!” 

“Sir?” 

“Are you afraid of hell?” He laughed and looked 
wildly from one to the other. “Why do you sit so near 
that poker, Henry?” He said it in a half savage, half 
cunning way. 

Then Forrest did a surprising thing, which came at 
first to his master with the shock of some blatant in- 
decency. 


447 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


*Tf I was you, sir, Fd say a prayer. You’ll feel the 
better for it.” 

And in a moment Michael had fallen again upon his 
knees, gasping broken words, now hardly distinguish- 
able from groans of agony, now rising to a shriek, now 
stretching out his hands, now clutching at nothing with 
writhing fingers. 

It came to Henry then that Michael was consciously 
fighting for his mind, desperately struggling against the 
mad desire to do violence. He looked at Forrest, who 
stood by respectfully, rubbing one hard hand over an- 
other, with a look of deep concern in his eyes. He was 
a good chap, was Forrest. For some time past Henry 
had suspected him of collusion with the corn merchant. 
Now suddenly he didn’t seem the sort of man to indulge 
in petty swindling. He had told Michael to pray, and 
Michael had obeyed him. It was very strange and 
startling, but perhaps he would be quieter afterwards. 
Henry simply believed that because of this Forrest could 
not cheat him over oats. 

The night wore on. Sometimes Michael would sit 
still for a few minutes, sometimes he prayed, mostly he 
walked up and down, moaning, restless. He only came 
once more near Henry. And when he did there was a 
crazy smile upon his face. 

He put his hand out and touched Henry on the sleeve. 

‘'You didn’t think — ^I’d do you any harm, Harry? 
I wouldn’t — Oh, I wouldn’t.” 

And then he fell once more to his promenade, with 
its hideous carefulness, up and down, to the stairs, back 
to the big oak cupboard, always within the border of 
the carpet. 

And so the morning came at last. 


448 


CHAPTER XIII 


S EEN in wry perspective, the three days that followed 
with all their hideousness of formal action, were 
for Dolly full of a serene contentment, that lay deep in 
her heart not yet decisively to be interpreted. For the 
first time since she had known him, for the first time 
in her life, Henry had surrendered to his imperative 
emotions. At length he had been inexorably caught in 
the straits of grief and fear. He was punished. He 
had been cruel and had called it justice: he had stifled 
the pity that he might have felt, as emotional display: 
he had fostered misunderstanding, and reticence had 
been his pride: he had resisted sympathy. And now 
at last he was beaten to his knees. For some time past 
he had been growing weaker in resistance, admitting 
Dolly to his confidence, yielding to her compassion. 
And now he had given in. He had bared his very soul. 
And for the first time in all their married life, Dolly 
realised possession. Deliberately she brought her mind 
to the past, when love had died — and laughed. It had 
gone by. She had him now. In the earliest days of 
all she had fought down reason and believed against 
belief that he was hers. Those were the days of her 
passionate giving. 

He let her see that he was fond of Michael. Without 
reserve he shewed her his naked fear. For the first 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


time in his life he let himself go, not in craven frenzy, 
but with sober vehemence. He held nothing back. And 
Dolly took him in her arms and caressed him. Always 
she had been conscious of her wasted capacity for 
motherhood. And with all her heart and soul given to 
her new dominion, this triumphant retrieval, she could 
not see what must inevitably come. Her exaltation 
blinded her to the obvious. Her usual virtue of fore- 
sight was in abeyance. 

The doctor had come in the early morning after 
the night of fear: and then other doctors in consulta- 
tion. Already Michael, poor fellow, had been taken 
away, now sobbing protestations of his harmlessness, now 
with wild eyes swearing to do harm. And when every- 
thing had been done, Henry had taken their own doctor 
aside, and had told him all that was in his mind. Dr. 
Spear had been cheerful and encouraging. Then Henry 
had asked him a direct question, and Spear had shaken 
his head. It was a matter that he took very seriously. 
Mental disease was terribly increasing. It was an ap- 
palling wrong in any instance to risk perpetuation. But, 
said Spear, we had to be sure of our facts first of all. 
Personally, he thought that the very natural fears of 
the moment were not sufficiently substantial to warrant 
such drastic measures as those immediately proposed. 
But Henry was certain of his facts ; no euphemisms had 
justified him in refusing the story about his grandfather. 
He talked of a fool’s paradise and the bitter injustice 
of allowing it to continue. He thought from the doctor’s 
manner that, while wishing to give him time, he fully 
endorsed his opinion. He was ready to imagine any- 
thing. There could be no doubt but that Spear was 
watching him closely on his own account. The eyes that 
looked so frank were also very searching. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


But for three days he could not bring himself to 
speak to Dolly. And Dolly, thinking for him alone, 
comforting him, taking the burden of affairs that must 
be settled, had no prevision of the blow that was to 
fall. Spear had wished to speak to her himself ; but she 
was out at the moment of his talk with Henry, and he 
could not wait. So Henry, with full knowledge of the 
Jiurt he was to inflict, for the first time in his life appre- 
ciating her mother's point of view, told Dolly. 

They were in the billiard-room after lunch. It was a 
wet and miserable day. Dolly had persuaded Henry 
with a good deal of difficulty to stop indoors to play 
with her. Suddenly he came round to her as she sat 
on the edge of the table. 

“It’s no good beating about the bush,” he said. “We 
must face it, Dolly. The marriage can’t take place.” 

Dolly sat poised in the same position, leaning on her 
cue, staring at him. She did not speak. 

“It’s bitter hard luck on the child — on both of them,” 
Henry went on. “I don’t know how to tell you what — - 
what I feel about it. But it’s no use waiting and put- 
ting off. I’ve thought of it before, often — ^before there 
was no further doubt about poor old Michael. I — know, 
dear, what this marriage meant to you.” 

And then her reason asserted itself in a flash. She 
saw it all. She knew that this had been inevitable. She 
knew what must happen — must, must, happen. And 
she went deadly white and swayed upon the edge of 
the table. 

“You must be a brave girl,” said Henry, holding her 
arm. “Remember it’s for the child’s sake — for both 
of them. Let this damned thing be stamped out now 
and for ever — at least as far as we’re concerned.” He 
was thinking of Evelyn and her family. 


451 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Dolly exerted her will and pulled herself nearer to 
him. She could scarcely hear the words she uttered. 

“Henry, you don’t know what you’re saying. Why — ■ 
why can’t they marry? My Katherine — oh, you can’t 
know what you’re saying.” 

“I know it’s hard to bear.” 

He held her arm still, and she could see his drawn 
face, his tired eyes. She knew that it was grievous for 
him to say, she knew that he was suffering with her. 

“There’s madness in the blood — ^my mother’s family. 
Her children might be mad. You never know — it’s 
never safe. It crops up when it’s least expected. It’s 
fearfully hereditary.” 

“But my Katherine — ^my beautiful Katherine — and 
the boy. How can they not be married ? They love 
each other — oh, it’s the most beautiful, the most ideal 
thing in the world. They must marry. It would be ter- 
rible if they did not.” 

“Poor old Dolly.” 

He moved nearer and tried to put his arms about 
her. But she looked at him, her face suddenly grown 
old, her eyes full of terror. And looking at him so 
she moved back, and gave a little frightened cry, which 
she stifled, but could not entirely check. She stumbled 
to a chair and buried her face upon her arms. Henry 
stood not looking at her, rolling the red ball gently 
against the cushion by his side, stopping it with two 
fingers, sending it back again. He had never been able 
quite to understand Dolly in pain. She was always 
unexpected. He knew that she must suffer from the 
shock since the necessity of the cruel measure had never 
occurred to her, but this sudden overwhelming, this out- 
right despair in a woman who usually kept so tight a 
rein upon her emotions, bewildered him. 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


‘Tt’s hard/’ he repeated. ^Tt is hard. Pm awfully 
sorry, dear.” 

Dolly rose abruptly. 

“I can’t talk, I can’t talk,” she said — ‘‘not now. I 
must get away and think. Henry — promise me some- 
thing — ^you won’t say a word of this to anyone just 
yet ?” 

“It’s no good putting it off. Isn’t it better to get it 
all over?” 

“But not to-day.” 

“You forget, dear — there’s no one to tell. They’ll 
not be back till to-morrow — except Graham. Graham 
got back last night. He had some meeting.” 

“And — and they’re coming back to-morrow — is it? — 
to-morrow. They’re all coming back — ^Katherine and 
Dick and all. I’ll— I’ll think.” 

They stood on either side of the table, and he tried 
to smile at her, and she at him. Then he hurried to 
open the door for her. 


453 


CHAPTER XIV 


T ATE that night, in her own little room, the refuge 
' where all the crises of her life had been fought 
out, Dolly instinctively groped towards her memory of 
Bella Keene. What was it she had said once, here in 
this very room? She remembered almost the exact 
words. She was speaking of Graham. 

'Wou can’t look at that man without feeling at once 
that he is the most scrupulously true, brave, downright 
honourable gentleman you will ever meet. He made me 
say to myself, ‘Well now. I’m safe.’ ” 

That was spoken by a casual acquaintance of a day’s 
standing. And Gerald his brother — a much severer 
test — ^had said the same thing differently only a few 
days before. “Talk of bed-rock !” 

And what she herself had always felt about Graham, 
had sent her to see him that afternoon. She had found 
him all alone in the big house — rather lonely ... she 
would never forget him as he stood there looking out 
of the window and how he had turned slowly and 
looked at her with eyes that were full of tenderness. 
She had noticed that his moustache drooped a little. . . . 
It seemed to make him look older and sadder. 

She had said nothing about her intention to Henry. 
There were small errands which would take her to the 
village in any case. She went by herself in the dog- 
454 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


cart. Henry for once understood her desire to be alone 
and respected it. He remembered to apply the com- 
parison between himself and her. He too liked to be 
solitary when there were things to think about. . . . 

What was it she had said once — the past was put 
behind her for ever, disinfected? She had been per- 
fectly satisfied about it. Before that, she had been 
happy. The time of suffering had been very brief. She 
had fought it out with herself : she had triumphed over 
her own weakness. And for the last five years she had 
been exceedingly happy, she had almost forgotten. It 
was all so strange and blurred and indefinite. There 
had been so much to do, and she had drawn Henry to 
her, slowly, closer and closer. She had almost prided 
herself on escaping the commonplace retribution that 
was supposed, sooner or later, always to come. You 
sowed and you reaped the harvest, and the harvest was 
sometimes very late, but it came in the end. Oh, she had 
flattered herself, she had flattered herself. . . . 

The hideous trick the Fates — the Merciful ones — ^had 
played her! Every fiend from every hell conjured by 
the frightened mind of man must mock her. The twist 
of circumstances had for so long been upon her side: 
how they had helped to her goal, and had, by persecut- 
ing Henry, brought him near to her. Poor mad Michael 
— all the misery and terror that he had carried with him 
had been swept away by flames of love and tenderness. 
She had stood glorying in her opportunity. And the 
hand that held the cup had twitched it away and emptied 
it and filled it again and held it steady to her lips. She 
could rest assured that she might drink this time, for 
the draught was of despair. 

She crouched lower upon the sofa and turned and 
writhed as though in bodily pain. The damnation she 

455 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


had wrought fell not on her alone. Henry — what would 
happen to him — Henry, whom she had grown at length 
to love again — faithful Henry? Well might he follow 
Michael, crazed, and raving that his soul was lost. She 
could see him with his fine hands tortured, his lips 
drawn back, his eyes staring, staring in the terror that 
was upon him. She could see his tense pose change and 
slacken, and he would look at her for a moment with 
dreadful cunning, and he would laugh. Oh, God, she 
could hear his laugh. And he would go away for ever, 
and she would be left alone. . . . 

Then she thought of Graham again and broke into 
passionate weeping. Graham was a good man, and 
people sneered at him because he enjoyed his food. 
How many men were good as Graham was good ? And 
the social laws were very dear to him. The social 
laws ! 

Dolly sat up and looked across the room. The candles 
were lit upon the mantel, and one candlestick was out 
of place, catching her eye, standing too near the look- 
ing-glass. Why did that suddenly appear important? 
She rose and set it right — and then remembered. There 
had been a time when she came here and looked in the 
glass when she was unhappy. And once — ^it was in the 
first days of her life here — she had seen that same 
candlestick out of place. She had been a fool then, she 
told herself. Now could she look into the glass? She 
rose quickly and went almost superstitiously to the side 
of the fireplace so that she should not see her own re- 
flection. She blew one candle out and from where she 
stood she snuffed the other with her finger. And even 
then the greyness served to let her catch the vaguest 
glimmering of her face, peering as she must. 

Not her memory, but her instinct made her draw 

456 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


aside the curtain and stand by the window for a little 
while. Then she opened it and leaned out. The sky 
was overcast, but the night was almost still. Every 
now and then, at long intervals the faintest breeze stirred 
amongst the beeches; and once very far away an owl 
hooted. Dolly could hardly make out the forms of trees 
or the lines of the drive. But the smell of earth rose 
up to her. 

She sat back in a chair and her eyes glowed out into 
the darkness, and she tried to think. She felt tired and 
weak. She wanted to cry again. It was all such bitter 
hard luck, for by craggy paths, by pain and infinite toil 
she had come into her own, and now no sooner had 
her possession seemed at last assured than it was 
snatched away. 

But, was it her own? Again her nostrils widened as 
she smelt the cool earth and heard the gentle wind sough- 
ing through the leaves. Was it her own — this life that 
might have been so quiet and so peaceful, this placid, 
comfortable life? Was she not rather a fighter, who 
to be herself must ever dwell in the midst of turmoil 
and of stress, struggling for her place? How pitifully 
easy it was to give in. Only the previous day — Sunday 
— she had gone to Utchester to Norwood’s well-ap- 
pointed church. She had been thinking of Michael and 
of Henry. Her brain was tired out, she had slept little 
for the past few nights. She had sought relief, kneel- 
ing there in the big church. She had gone there as a 
last resort. She had copied other people : everybody did 
it in the end, it was said. She would pray in the crowd. 
Where there was a great volume of emotion loosed, 
she must be drawn into it. And the Vicar would preach 
and she would find something consoling in his eloquence. 
She sat there, bruised, worn out, 


457 


•THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Mr. Norwood had preached at some length on the 
Apostolic Succession — Apostolic Succession. Dolly re- 
peated it to herself. He had gone into the pulpit and 
in a cheerful, business-like manner, very quietly, very 
socially, had set out his little argument. She had sought 
balm for a lacerated soul, she told herself, and he had 
given her theological epigrams, toasted and buttered. 
He was very alert. At the end he had swung briskly 
round to the east, ‘'And now to God the Father. . . 

After that Dolly felt that her liking for Norwood and 
his prosperous church must have coincided with some 
drastic deterioration in her judgment. His God was a 
God of Science, not of mysteries; the God of History, 
of expediency. He explained Divine justice by the meas- 
ure of human justice. Gerald had been right. Norwood 
had made a chart for his religion; and in it there were 
squares and angles and sometimes vicious circles. He 
praised God as being a very clever Man. 

Apostolic succession — ^balm for a soul in pain. 

Once more she rose and leaned from the window. 
And now suddenly a flood of anger at herself surged 
up. She had been giving in. She had been a coward. 
She compared herself with a woman she had once 
known, a mean-faced, a shrivelled, a finikin virago, a 
shrimp of a fury, brave in her own enthusiasms, but 
shrinking from the common lot and what she called 
unclean. She had wept in terror and disgust at the 
prospect of maternity. Was she no finer than that? 
She stood up and flung open the dressing-gown she 
wore and bared her throat and breast to the night air, 
and drank in and in the fragrance that rose up from 
earth. 

And to Henry when she spoke to him — she would not 
cry, nor be angry nor contemptuous. She would say 

458 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


what she must say, openly, plainly, straightly. And yet, 
and yet, she cared for him. She was a woman, she 
was his wife, and it was hard to be strong. And he 
regarded her and so did others — ^as an English lady. 
She ought to have been refined and gentle, knowing 
what was good for him, but allowing his knowledge of 
what was best for her. . . . 

And then came a moment when, between laughter 
that was almost mad, and tears, she lost herself. 

She did not know anything till Henry with a candle 
in his hand stood at the door. 

^‘What are you doing?'’ he asked, and she saw that 
his face was white and tired. ‘‘Why are you in here? 
Why aren't you in bed? Your night-dress is all tom. 
I thought I heard you scream. What — what is the 
matter, Dolly?" 

“Did I scream? Here, come here," and she laid her 
two hands upon his shoulders, and spoke slowly and 
without excitement. 

“Katherine shall be married — do you hear? She 
shall marry Dick. There's no madness in Katherine. 
She's not your child." 


459 


CHAPTER XV 


T T E had always been faithful ; he had never looked at 
another woman. That was his first thought, as 
soon as he could feel at all. He was unlike so many men ; 
he had never thought himself free to do as he pleased 
He had given his word of honour when he was mar- 
ried. He had never consciously broken his word. 

And he had been fooled. That came next in his 
mind — a hideous realization. His whole life for twenty 
years had been a miserable sham. The old proverb 
forced its way into his mind — ^the old jesting proverb 
which came and twisted his tongue to its utterance: 
‘TPs a wise child. . . He turned livid with rage at 
the impertinent behest of sardonic memory. Katherine 
was not his daughter at all. She was nothing to do 
with him. He had never cared very deeply for her; 
now he knew why. Poor little bastard — poor nameless 
little girl. She was not his daughter; she was one of 
those who did not count at all in the social scheme. 
And of course she could not marry Dick Faucet — that 
was not to be heard of. He would have to tell Graham 
— he must tell him, and the boy would have to know too. 
An old county family would not be mixed up in that 
sort of thing: it would be an undying disgrace even if 
the horror were not known. He could not allow a good 
old name to be smirched in some possible future when 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


the thing became known, as it might. There was no 
telling. Good blood must not be tainted with a bastard 
strain. They would have to know about it. He could 
never allow the marriage to take place under false 
pretences. The thought came back to him with grow- 
ing insistence — he must go and see Graham. He would 
have to admit the stain upon his own honour. Graham 
would hold his tongue — ^yes, of course he would. But 
he would know and his wife would know too, and Dick. 
Perhaps in a way they would be sorry for him. But to 
them also would occur the old proverb. . . . 

And that would be the end of the matter. They 
would have to go away from Needs and live somewhere 
else. 

He had been silent when Dolly spoke. And she 
thought that he had not heard. She had said it again. 
For a moment he literally did not believe her, or his own 
hearing, then at last he whispered : 

‘‘Who was it?” 

And she had told him. It didn’t seem to be very im- 
portant, somehow. But he noticed that she said, “Mait- 
land” — just the surname alone. She often spoke of 
men like that, and Katherine had caught the trick. It 
was one of the little things that annoyed him. 

Then for a time his mind had been a blank. It was 
as though he had suffered some violent physical shock. 
He did not know how long he had stood there in the 
little room. He remembered that it had been rather 
cold, and that he had gone to the window and closed 
it. And Dolly had stared at him, standing with her 
hair dishevelled and her breast bare and the lace about 
her neck torn. 

Then he had returned to bed. And as he lay there, 
thought — like blood forcing its way through channels 

461 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


long compressed — began to come again; and he felt the 
pain of it, and the injustice, the crying injustice. He 
had been a good husband to her, he said to himself. 
He had always been faithful. 

He heard the door of Dolly’s room close. How long 
had she been standing there? His old familiar care 
asserted itself mechanically — she would catch cold. She 
had always been heedless of herself, always causing him 
anxiety. It had been ever the same. He remembered 
the supposed risks that she had run before Katherine 
was born — ah, every recollection sneered at him. He 
had hoped for a boy. Good God, he had hoped for a 
boy. . . . 

He was very tired, for he had slept badly for a week 
past. There had been that night with Michael, and 
before that, and ever since. Curiously, his own old 
fear for himself did not occur to him now. But he felt 
worn out. He was a man who slept well as a rule — ^he 
was accustomed to plenty of rest. He never lay thinking 
of his troubles, wrestling with problems, as Doily did. 
All his life he had resolutely put worry from him when 
he turned in. Without conscious effort he did so now. 
He was too tired to think about things, and he fell 
asleep. 

In the morning it all came to him in a flash, and he 
sat up abruptly. He must speak to Dolly — somehow. 
And Katherine was coming home to-day. The thing 
must be stopped at once. As he went across the room 
he saw that Dolly was already out of doors going 
towards the stables. The sun was high. The dogs in 
the yard broke into frantic barking at the approach of 
their mistress. He could hear fowls clucking some- 
where in the distance. The postman came into sight at 
the bend of the drive. It must be the second post, 
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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


then, and he was very late. He had overslept himself. 
Williams had brought him his tea and pulled aside the 
curtains and laid out his clothes, and had never awak- 
ened him. 

When he got downstairs his breakfast was just being 
brought into the dining-room. No questions had been 
asked and there had been no tappings at his door. 
Merely, they had heard him leave the bathroom — the 
signal to begin frying the bacon: had heard him set 
foot upon the stairs — and breakfast was ready at the 
precise moment that he was ready for it. He was 
punctual as a rule and did not notice the smoothness 
of domestic ways. To-day he had risen at ten instead 
of at eight. He had a subconscious feeling of satis- 
faction at the manner in which things were done in 
his house. He was glad to be alone, and it occurred to 
him afterwards with a sort of shame that he had eaten 
a good meal. 

He opened his letters as usual — a very long one from 
Evelyn, which he could riot be bothered to Tead now, 
some circulars, one from the doctor. He read that 
slowly. It began with a long preamble, warning him to 
prepare for good news. It was about Michael. Yes, 
Michael was his poor mad brother, and yet Henry read 
on as though Michael were a stranger. He had grown 
his hair very long for many years past. What the devil 
had that to do with the doctor? A scar- — ^he had found 
a very ugly scar upon his head. There must have been 
a wound about which nothing was said. It must have 
been a very serious wound. Perhaps Major Clarey 
could throw some light on the subject? Would Wedlaw 
write to him in India? There need be no reasonable 
doubt whatever that this wound was the cause of the 
trouble. There may have been aggravations, but the 

463 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


hereditary explanation would not hold water. The 
doctor had made the most careful enquiries. Old Mr. 
Hilliard's case was nothing to worry about. He would 
have come over to bring the good news, only that he 
was rushed to death, but he would call in a day or two. 
So there need be no personal fears now — ^none what- 
ever. 

Henry read the letter once and put it in his pocket. 
Poor old Michael. It didn’t seem to matter very much. 
He need have no fears? Needn’t he? Oh, well — so 
much the better. But it was rather amusing, now he 
came to think of it. He laughed quietly and then opened 
a catalogue of feeding-troughs, chaff-cutters and the 
like. It had been sent by a neighbour, with a pencil 
mark against a recommended pattern 

Later on from the morning-room, he heard Dolly 
moving about in the hall. He had seen her a minute 
before, crossing the lawn with a basket of flowers. He 
opened the door and looked at her, suddenly finding it 
very hard to speak. She stood there against the big oak 
cupboard with her head half turned away, her hair shin- 
ing. It occurred to him how beautiful she was. She 
had roses in her hand, and she was twisting the stalks 
this way and that in the effort to break them off. Habit 
unconsciously asserted itself; he had always hated to 
see things done in a clumsy fashion. 

“You want a knife,” he said before he could realise. 

She turned and came towards him. He saw now that 
she looked ill and very tired. 

“Come in here.” 

She followed him and stood silent. 

“Of course, you must see that this marriage will have 
to be stopped. I — I shall have to speak to Graham 
Faucet, and that will be the end of the matter.” 

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THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


Dolly still did not speak, but her wide eyes asked 
the question — why? 

‘T can’t allow this boy to fall into a trap. He can’t 
be married under a false conception as to — as to Kath- 
erine. His father will have to know, and of course he 
would never hear of it for a moment, and — I can quite 
sympathise with him.” 

Dolly sat down suddenly by the window, resting her 
head upon her hand, and looking at Henry. 

‘T saw Graham yesterday,” she said slowly, “and — 
and it makes no difference. He says it’s nothing to do 
with Dick or Katherine, and they are not to know.” 

“You told him yourself?” 

“Yes; he had thought about it a great deal, and-^ ” 

“How could he have thought about it? You’d only 
just told him.” 

Dolly sighed and looked out of the window for a mo- 
ment. 

“I didn’t mean to let you know that,” she said at last, 
tenderly, “but — he had known all the time.” 

There was silence for several moments. Henry re- 
peated the last four words, muttering to himself. 

“I mean,” said Dolly as she rose, “he had guessed — 
he was certain. He had never said anything and he 
never will.” 

Henry covered his face. 

“How many have — guessed — ^how many?” he said. 

“No one. I am quite certain, and so is Graham. It’s 
his wonderful instinct,” she murmured, half to herself, 
“and then — his wonderful goodness.” 

“He will allow his heir to marry — -Katherine?” 

“I have told you.” 

Henry raised his eyebrows and jammed the news- 
paper that he had been folding up into its rack. 

465 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


“Then there^s no more to be said. It’s his affair.” 

Suddenly he stood up; his manner changed and he 
asked bitterly, 

“Is this true — what you’re telling me? Did you tell 
Graham ?” 

Dolly looked at him and away, the colour coming and 
going in her face, her eyes bright. For a moment he 
felt almost afraid of her. Then, quivering she sat down 
again. After all, she thought, she must expect that. 

“Yes,” she said. 

Henry looked away, muttering something about going 
into Utchester. Coolly he filled his tobacco pouch from 
the jar on the table. Then he went across the room. At 
the door he turned. 

“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that I heard 
from Spear this morning: they’ve found out the cause 
of Michael’s trouble — an old injury on his head. He 
seems to think there’s no doubt about it.” 

Dolly cried out impulsively. 

“Oh, I am glad. I was always certain there must be 
something — some definite cause. I am glad.” 

The kind of smile that she well remembered from 
days gone by flickered for an instant about Henry’s 
lips; and she saw what amused him. The news was 
a day too late. Her agony was wasted. Henry was 
clearly convinced at last by the discovery. She might 
have held her tongue. She stood still for a moment 
with her hands upon the back of a chair. Then, sud- 
denly, just as Henry closed the door behind him, she 
lost control before the inexorable humour of the situa- 
tion, and broke into convulsive laughter. 

That evening on his return, Henry came up to her 
room. Dolly was as usual sitting by the open window, 
466 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


looking out for the carriage which presently should 
bring Katherine home. 

‘'Bit chilly to-night,” said Henry, “I shouldn’t sit 
there if I were you. Touch of frost in the air. I only 
came up to say that — ^you will understand — ^this subject 
will never be mentioned again.” 

Dolly made no answer, and Henry went out. 

Every man had his chance. She remembered Gerald 
saying that, and she saw the force of it. Sooner or 
later came the moment to every man when he must 
accept a profound reversal of some cherished notion or — 
stick for ever. 

Nothing could move Henry. He had always hated 
unpleasant discussions. He had always, in matters of 
vital moment, eluded the point or shirked uncomfortable 
issues. So now. And if he only knew he might have 
saved himself a little of the pain. 

He would never mention the subject again. He had 
neither the generosity nor the courage to face it, to get 
at the truth, to fight it down, to drive it from his mind. 
He was trying to forget by easier means. What was 
weak in Dolly rejoiced. There would be no row. Things 
would go on — ^more or less the same. He would never 
know that she grieved for him, or what she had suf- 
fered in the past, or was suffering now. She had been 
brave in the stress of circumstances and she could be 
brave again. But he feared what he might hear from 
her. And there must be silence now. . . . She had been 
unfaithful. There was despair, and despair had turned 
to rage and passionate longings for the life of the mo- 
ment. And then despair again. And then a slow emerg- 
ing into calm, unlooked-for happiness. And now she 
must be punished after all. It seemed to be the ful- 
filment of a natural law. She and Henry would be 

467 


THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN 


alone together, and she would notice his awkward si- 
lences, his quick avoidance of personal talk, the pain 
in his eyes. And she must never give way or throw 
herself upon her knees beside him or plead forgiveness, 
because it could never be wholly sincere. For the rest 
of her life with him she must appear to be colder than 
she was, harder, more imrelenting. And he would never 
understand. 

. . . Henry was very comfortable at home. Break- 
fast was ready for him when he wanted it. Everything 
went with clock-like regularity. The farm paid fairly 
well. Katherine would soon be gone and he would be 
glad when she was no longer in the house. . . . Kath- 
erine was her child, hers, hers, hers — no one else’s. 
Katherine would be happy. She had done something 
with her time after all. She had given life to one beauti- 
ful creature, and made her happy. 

. . . There was Henry walking across the grass in 
front of the house; and presently she saw him leaning 
on the orchard gate. 

At the same time she heard the near approaching 
carriage wheels. The sun had just set. The faint green 
of fields upon the hill-side glimmered indecisive, quickly 
changing. Low in the violet haze, the new moon faded 
and glowed again, a mystery of golden light. 

The carriage came into sight upon the drive. In the 
twilight Dolly could just see Katherine and Dick beside 
her. They were waving to her and calling her, radiant 
and happy. Then for a moment, before going down- 
stairs, she turned her eyes once more towards the 
orchard. Henry was still leaning on the gate, held by 
the evening’s loveliness, alone. 


468 


THE END 




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